


Who Do You Think You Are?

by ProtoNeoRomantic



Series: All Things Proceed from Passion [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: A certain God who shall remain nameless, Absent Parents, Animal Transformation, Armed Robery, Ballroom Blitz, Betrayal, Bisexual Female Character, Buffy Summers Backstory, Conspiracies, Cruciamentum, Cultural Differences, Dark Past, Dysfunctional Family, Exes, F/F, F/M, Faith Backstory, Family Secrets, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Federalism, Fish out of Water, Fpreg, Fugitives, Gen, Gender or Sex Swap, Gratuitous Firefly Allusions, Grief/Mourning, Guardians - Freeform, Gun Violence, Heresy, Human Sacrifice, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Incest, Infanticide, Intergenerational Relationships, It's About Power, Justifiable Homicide, Juvenile Justice, Kidnapping, Living Vampires, London, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Loss of Virginity, Loyalty, M/M, Married Life, Married Sex, Meet the Family, Morning Sickness, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, Moving In Together, Murder, Murderers, Oh! THAT 'Goddess Hecate'?, Oral History, Oral Sex, Other, Pagan Gods, Paris (City), Party, Patriarchy, Potentials - Freeform, Radio Slang, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rats, Religion & Politics, Romance, Rupert Giles Backstory, Secret Marriage, Secret Societies, Shotgun Wedding, Slavery, Sleeping Spells, Social Minefield, Standards, Swords, Teen Pregnancy, Teenage Parents, The 90s, The Blitz, Truth Spells, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, Vaginal Sex, Vampire Politics, Vampire Technology, Virgin Sacrifice, Watchers Council Politics, Wedding Reception, Wedding Rings, What Doesn't Kill You Can Still Seriously Mess You Up, Willow Rosenberg Backstory, Witches, references to cannibalism, secret meetings, shindig, tea time, underage marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:39:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 308,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1235281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/ProtoNeoRomantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Follow up to Lady's Choice.<br/>The hardest thing about choices is to live with them.... Even unto the third and fourth generation.</p><p>“Our lives are so important to us that we tend to think the story of them begins with our birth. First there was nothing, then I was born...Yet that is not so. Human lives are not pieces of string that can be separated out from a knot of others and laid out straight. Families are webs. Impossible to touch one part of it without setting the rest vibrating. Impossible to understand one part without having a sense of the whole. - Vida Winter”<br/>― Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [porkwithbones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/porkwithbones/gifts).



> To porkwithbones, because of a conversation at McDonald's.
> 
> Book Two picks up within minutes after the end of Book One: Lady's Choice. It is broken into Three Parts. Part I: "Motherless Child" (Chapters 1-5), Part II: "The Lesser Light" (Chapters 6-12) Part III: "Where the Heart Is" (Chapters 13-19)
> 
> For more information on Canon Compliance/Divergence and Story Mechanics and Themes, see series description.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Buffy and Giles wake up to the reality of their new life together, other Sunnydale couples are struggling with their own weird and tricky problems while Spike copes with Drusilla's death by plotting revenge against Buffy. Meanwhile Joyce begins to realize what it means to be the mother of the Slayer... and a few other things, not that she is the only ancestor having problems with the new reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part I: Motherless Child

Sunnydale, CA. March 7, 1998

 

“Drusilla!” Spike called cheerfully, grinning from ear to ear, “Honey, I’m home!” The sanctuary was empty. “I’ve got a surprise for you!” he all but sang, careening through the door to her makeshift quarters, casually dragging his chain of a dozen weeping bedraggled girls behind him. At the other end of the chain, Edwards had to move smartly to stay on his feet.

Her room was empty. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. It dented Spike’s good mood, but only just. So she was with Angel. Angel was a withered husk. Spike was a conquering hero. They strolled into the cloakroom that Angel had been sharing with Zanya ever since Edwards had moved down to the pump station. Both vampires stood shoulder to shoulder now, dragging their loop of captives. Zanya’s hollow eye stared through them out of her melted face for a moment then focused on Edwards. She said something grave and incomprehensible before looking back down at the charred remains that shivered on the pile of cushions next to her.

“Where is Drusilla?” Spike asked with a sort of tense, forced cheerfulness. Zanya gave him a sad, worried look. Then turned her eye to Edwards again, speaking briefly but urgently.

Edwards looked at Spike worriedly. “Speak English, Sweetheart,” he admonished Zanya gently. “We can’t understand you.”

With a loud, inarticulate _human_ cry of rage and frustration, Spike dropped the end of the chain and advanced on Zanya. “Where! Is! Drusilla!?!” he shouted, his features still eerily undemonic, contorted with desperate, angry fear. Zanya stared at him: calm, still, silent.

Dropping his own end of the chain, Edwards rushed between them. Roaring, vamping out at last, Spike struck Edwards a fierce blow to the face that would have swatted a human like a fly. Edwards staggered, but kept to his feet, blocking the immediate follow on blows. Less than one hundred percent of the chained captives decided to run for their lives. Ignoring the screaming chaos of old steel and young flesh that imploded in spasmodic, futile motion behind him, Edwards tried at once to get in a jab to the throat and a word of reason. Neither landed. Spike’s next blow knocked him to the ground. The tangle of shackled virgins engulfed him.

“Now,” said Spike, relatively cool and menacing, rounding on the still oddly serene Zanya, “I’m going to ask one more time and then I’m going to get angry. Where is Drusilla?” Zanya looked significantly at the ceiling. Edwards bit and clawed his way free in time to see Spike heading briskly for the tunnel to the school basement. Hesitating only a moment, he secured the girls’ chain to an iron ring on the wall and went after him.

No attempt had been made to re-cover the tunnel entrance on the basement side. The door at the top of the stairs stood wide open, leading into the main hallway. Spike went up. He knew that something was terribly wrong the way old people know the weather is changing without knowing how they know. He had a lot of experience with terrible wrongness. He sniffed the air for Drusilla’s sent and followed it up another flight to an open door festooned with yellow tape and stinking of blood. The site of yesterday’s shooting. Inside the room, the smell of blood was laced with a certain mixture of dust and ash that every vampire of any real age came to know too well.

Even among the scents of a hundred or more human’s, the smell of the Slayer was unmistakable. ‘Fe Fi Fo Fum.’ Spike laughed madly. He screamed. He howled. He snarled. He wept. He raged through the room throwing and smashing furniture. The world was turning inside out. It wasn’t his beanstalk any more.

 ***

“So what does this mean?” Xander whispered into the phone, “Are we cool? Are we in charge now?”

Cordelia laughed. “Not quite. We’re... eligible to compete for cool. We’re available to be invited to places and events where it is possible to become cool.”

“So who’s in charge?”

“Nobody... yet,” Cordelia explained. “Harmony’s disgraced herself and Tiffany’s failed to capitalize. No surprise there. She never really had it in her and most of her hangers on just wish they were cool. So there’s a ... diffusion of power. Multiple centers of cool. There’s cheerleaders, which I am. There’s rich kids, which I am. There’s brave, interesting people, which you are. There’s good-looking, well dressed people, which we both were tonight. And then there’s athletes and musicians and maybe a couple of other things, which we’re not, but all in all, we’re pretty well positioned. All we need is to make the rights moves and to have a little luck. You were amazing tonight, by the way,” she added.

“No you were amazing!” Xander shout-whispered.

“No you’re amazing,” Cordelia giggled.

“No, you,” Xander repeated, “everyone loved you.”

“No... Well, okay I am amazing,” Cordelia acknowledged, “but you... you’re getting there fast. Even I was impressed.”

Xander sat up a little straighter in bed, adjusting the phone to a more comfortable position against his ear. “To be honest though, I still don’t exactly get what happened.”

“Okay, so in my old life, my reputation was built on being a bigger bitch than anyone, people were in fear and awe of me.”

“Yeah,” said Xander, “I remember.”

“Nobody had to like me,” Cordelia went on, “what mattered was if I liked them.” She sighed. “Then you came along and ruined everything,” she explained with a sort of affectionate resignation.

“I did what now?” Xander asked, not sure if he was supposed to feel offended.

“Coldhearted bitches don’t fall in love,” Cordelia said matter-of-factly, “at least not unless it’s clearly in their best interests. You showed them my weakness.”

“And the rest of the pack devoured you,” Xander concluded.

“Exactly,” Cordelia acknowledged. “So I’m not queen bitch any more, you never get that back. What does that leave?”

“Worker bitch?”

“That’s Harmony,” Cordelia laughed. “No, reformed ex-bitch. I had no clue what a good idea that was when I was having it. People love a good redemption story.” Cordelia took a deep breath before plunging in to the next thing she had to explain. There was no avoiding it. She had defeated and humiliated Harmony. She had to be prepared for retaliation. “Besides,” she said, “it partly defuses... gossip older than a certain date.”

Xander was confused. “I’m confused,” he said. “What gossip?”

“I wanted it to be Kevin,” she said. “If it had to be anybody, I wanted it to be Kevin. But the math kept adding up to Mitch, who I dumped—for another guy, a week before Spring Fling, after he got beaten half to death because of me—because I didn’t love him.”

“What are you talking about?” Xander asked. “What was Harmony doing with Mitch anyway?”

Cordelia sighed. Xander was many good things and some smart things, including witty and very occasionally insightful, but he was not too quick at adding up facts and insinuation to their logical conclusions. “He was a prop,” she explained, “a reminder. A threat.” Cordelia laughed mirthlessly, “‘I know what you did last summer.’ That’s why he got so pissed when he figured out what they were there for.”

“You hit a crazy pirate guy with your car?”

“No, Xander,” Cordelia said, resenting his obtusity to the fact that she wasn’t in a joking mood. “Mitch got me pregnant last year. I had an abortion.”

“Oh,” said Xander. He didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t having thoughts and his feelings didn’t have neat labels. They mostly added up to wanting to make Cordelia’s previous statement be not true, possibly by beating the crap out of Mitch McNaughton.

“In a way I guess it was easier,” Cordelia went on nervously, speaking to fill his silence. “That it was Mitch I mean. I loved Kevin so much, I think that would have been harder. Especially with... the way he died.”

“Goddamn vampires!” Xander said, seizing on something he knew how to feel about. “I wish they could feel what it’s like to be human and have to get your heart ripped out all the time.”

*** 

Edwards stood in the hallway, waiting for rage to burn itself out. When the sound of smashing wood and crashing metal had been replaced a good five minutes with nothing but broken sobs of anguish, he ventured hesitantly across the threshold. He’d have thought his very presence would have shamed Spike into pulling himself together and getting back up on his feet. But the ‘General’ of the subterranean army continued, to the disgrace of all vampires and Englishmen, to lie face down weeping and banging his bloodied fists on the debris strewn floor.

“Get up,” the older vampire said at last, his tone entirely flat.

Spike rose to his hands and knees and looked up at him. “She’s gone,” he said, not only with anguish, but with the frustrated urgency of one imparting vital information to one too blind to see it. “Drusilla is no more!” It was the most important fact in the history of the world. But only to Spike.

Edwards grabbed Spike by the lapels of his long black coat and pulled him to his feet. “For Satan’s sake, stop sniveling!” he chided, “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I don’t care!” Spike wailed. His voice died down to a hollow whisper, “God, I don’t care,” he rasped.

Edwards’ next impulse was to slap the boy, or perhaps to beat him senseless. He refrained. Despite his current state, Spike had it in him to be a leader in ways that Edwards did not; to rally, to inspire, to organize, to plan, to bulldoze over opposition. And there was no doubt that a leader was needed. The army had to be held together, to keep the Slayer off their backs for the three weeks it would take to complete the ritual and get Zanya in a fit state to leave town. The last thing he wanted to do was to tip Spike over the next breaking point from busted up to obliterated.“Revenge,” he said with conviction, “is the ultimate act of love.”

“I don’t want love,” Spike whispered bitterly, turning half away, hiding his face in his hands, showing a little shame at last. “I want Drusilla. I’m nothing without her. I never was. I never will be.”

“And I thought _I_ was a sentimental fool,” Edwards laughed.

“Humph,” Spike snorted, “You are,” he pointed out. “You’re as big a sap as I am or you wouldn’t be bothering about me at all. The Slayer doesn’t know you from Adam. The only reason you’re still here is to get your girl patched up.”

“Well my father gave eight pounds for her in 1697,” Edwards explained facetiously, laughing more at himself than Spike now, “I reckon it’ll take me at least another year or two to be sure we’ve gotten our money’s worth.”

A ghost of a smile passed over Spike’s features. “Your father’s was she?”

Edwards grinned, “To the day we killed him. We were humans then, so it was a bit traumatic. And there’s another investment I have to make worth my while I guess.”

Spike shrugged. “I never thought parents were much of a loss,” he said, his tone a little harsher than what his indifferent expression tried to project. Edwards was relieved to see that he was pulling it together enough to try to project anything, but he sensed he was getting too near a sensitive subject. Frankly, he was feeling a little exposed himself.

“Demons don’t mourn,” Edwards said firmly. “Grief is for humans. They’re made for it. Let’s give it to them.”

 ***

Willow pushed the buttons again, listening to Oz’s message for the tenth time at least. “Hey, Willow?” his voice wavered just a little from its usual causal monotone, but it was enough. “Just... wanting to talk to you. Call me when you get a chance. Just... let me know what’s up with you, okay?” He all but repeated himself, three variations on the same theme. Twenty words to say what could have been said in two, not wanting to hang up, not wanting that thin sliver of almost contact to be broken. He was worried. He was upset. He had reason to be, even if he didn’t know it.

Willow buried her face in her hands, but since she was in there with it, it didn’t do her a lot of good. At least Amy had gone home after the dance. She’d had enough Willard for one day Willow guessed. She could always come around snapping her fingers again whenever she wanted more.

And what about Oz? Willow missed him terribly. She longed to be enfolded in his arms, to be told that everything would be alright from now on. More realistically, she could have hoped to lean on his bed and hold his hand, to be told that everything would probably be alright for a little while, but she didn’t know if she could bring herself to go and see him when the hospital opened for visitors. She was too ashamed to face him, too afraid he would know.

She played the message again, listening for every single, subtle sign of distress, torturing herself. She deserved to be tortured. She deserved to suffer. She was weak. She was filthy. She was nothing, a mere extension of Amy’s desire. A desire with desires of its own. A hollow vessel of lust and regret. She played the message again. Again. Again.

 ***

“You have reached Joyce—” “—and Buffy—” “—Please leave a mess—”

“Damn it!” Joyce swore, slamming the receiver back into its cradle. It was nearly two a.m. She’d called ten times in six hours. By definition, something had to be wrong. Either Buffy couldn’t be home, or she had chosen not to be. Did the fact that she was fighting a secret war for the benefit of all mankind somehow make a third category, or did it fit into the first one? The second?

Filled with dread and resentment, Joyce wondered for at least the tenth time how she could have failed to get a phone number for Rupert Giles before leaving Sunnydale. Of course he was unlisted. Once again she resisted the urge to call Buffy’s friends. None of their parents could be trusted with the information that Buffy was in violation of her terms of release. It would only make things worse as it had done before....

Joyce had an odd sense of vertigo as the facts relating to the Pacific Coast Motor Lodge shifted and realigned themselves in her mind. Angel had not been there with her daughter. It was Buffy who had thrashed him back in Sunnydale hours earlier. Which meant she had been driven to the motel on the other side of the county by? Rupert Giles. But why? To avoid arrest? Was that the real reason? The only reason? If so, it was a panic move. He hadn’t seemed like a man prone to panic. If not...

Yesterday (going on the day before) when she had been buried in fifty-thousand metric tons of new information about her daughter, Joyce had felt almost as much relieved as overwhelmed. She’d felt certain that when she finished sifting everything would be explained. Everything would be justified. But now she was forced to admit that there was no real reason why a world filled with demons would preclude a seventeen-year-old girl merely misbehaving. Or a forty-something-year-old man for that matter. She’d have liked to say Buffy had better sense, but that would mean steeply discounting the fact that she found it acceptable to not only have sex with a demonic undead monster but to bear its offspring....

Suddenly, other facts started realigning in Joyce’s mind. A dozen red roses left by the kitchen door for her authentically heartbroken daughter on Valentine’s Night. The weeks of moping that had led up to that moment. The anguish and dread in her eyes as she read the single word, ‘soon.’ If Buffy and Angel’s ‘break up’ had been a hard break between the natural and the supernatural, not the back and forth tug of a normal human relationship drawing to an end, it was hard to see how the time-line could really work out. ‘What did you do for your birthday?’ ‘I got older.’ That was hell and gone from the morning after. A morning after needs a night before. Apparently, Buffy had spent not only most of the night of her arrest but at least some part of the previous night alone with none other than Rupert Giles. Comforting him in his grief. Assisting him in his quest for revenge. It was too terrible. It made too much sense. Why tell a lie unless the truth was worse, or at least worse for someone?

Reaching a decision, Joyce got up and started packing. She had her bags half packed before she remembered that she didn’t have her car with her. It was too late to rent one. Because it was too late to be taking off half cocked on the assumption that Buffy was either lying in the arms of her middle aged ‘Watcher’ or dead in a crypt somewhere. If Mr. Giles was the father of Buffy’s baby, if they were somewhere together right now, what could she do about it tonight? There was one thing, Joyce realized. She could call Hank. He could be in Sunnydale in two and a half hours the way he drove. Was it worth it? What would he do when he got there? Whether he found Buffy in bed with her high school librarian or failed to find her at all, he’d probably end up calling the police or worse. If there was one thing the situation didn’t call for it was yet more drama.

Of course, it was entirely possible, Joyce reminded herself, that she was imagining the whole thing. Buffy might just as well have been distressed by some other man or monster on both her birthday and Valentine’s Day, the tragedy of Angel still ahead of her. Was it possible she only wanted to believe the worst of Mr. Giles so that she could justify keeping Buffy away from him and his war, whatever the cost to mankind? Who said she needed a justification? Didn’t she have a right to protect her daughter, a duty even, ‘destiny’ notwithstanding? Joyce felt sick. Most of what she knew about war had thirteen stripes and three corners. It was always for the good of mankind, of course. Stop the spread etc. Until Saigon falls and it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. How much difference could it really make for one girl to kill a few vampires?

 ***

“Why aren’t there more of us?” Kim whispered to Keri.

“Because Spike doesn’t want the others to know that the ritual’s not about killing the Slayer,” Keri whispered back. “At least not until she’s dead.”

‘Which is never going to happen unless there’s more of us,’ Kim thought sourly, but she said, “Then why are _they_ here?”

“The early risers?” Keri asked, indicating the two somewhat taller blond girls who were pushing and shoving each other as they rolled a barrel of gasoline along near the front of the group. “They don’t even know about the ritual. Also, they know the Slayer.”

“Not them,” Kim hissed. “ _Them_.” Sunday and her five minions made up the center of the group, just behind Spike and Edwards but in front of the two Aurelians Edwards had convinced Spike to take into their confidence.

“That’s the weirdest part of the whole thing,” Keri explained. “The big mean blond one just walks up to Spike, bold as a very bold thing and says, ‘Screw all this virgin crap, what’s the real plan?’”

“No way!” Kim breathed.

“Swear to God!... or... whoever. I was standing right there!”

“What did Spike say?”

“He _told_ her. About Angel and Zanya and Drusilla and the Slayer and the whole bit. He was like... impressed or something.”

“Um, I think this is it,” Harmony announced nervously, smiling like a child who really wants a cookie reward but isn’t sure she’s earned one.

“Of course this is it, lame brain!” said Tiffany harshly. “1630 Revello Drive.”

“Would you two stupid whores please shut up?” Spike scolded, rough but quiet. “You’ll wake her before we’re ready.” They sunk into sullen silence. “Hold on a tick,” Spike motioned Edwards to come closer to the house with him. “What do you feel?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Edwards said grimly.

“Exactly!” said Spike.

“She’s not here,” one of the Aurelians acknowledged.

“Well, can we go ahead and burn it down anyway?” Harmony whined, “Because we’ve been rolling these barrel things for-like-ever and my arms are getting really, really tired.”

“Shut up Harmony,” Tiffany barked. Looking up as Spike, with servile love shining in her eyes she added, “It’s a pleasure to serve the Master.”

“Whatever,” said Harmony, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. “Are we going to burn Buffy’s house down or not?”

“Well it would send a message, I suppose,” Edwards mused. He wanted to keep Spike engaged in the active quest for vengeance and surrounded by beautiful young vampires as long as possible, not give him too much time to think and grieve and fall apart again.

But Spike scoffed. “Yeah,” he agreed sarcastically. “It’ll send a message all right! ‘Dear Buffy, please come to the Hellmouth looking for payback and bollix up the ritual.’”

“We could try the librarian’s house,” Tiffany suggested.

Spike shrugged, “Angel was convinced they were shagging, figured he was just being paranoid.”

“Like rabbits,” Tiffany confirmed, “the whole school knows about it. It’s disgusting.”

“Jealous,” Harmony muttered.

Tiffany kicked her in the shins and pushing and shoving ensued. “Shut it,” said Spike simply, banging both their heads together.

“Sorry, Master,” said Tiffany.

“Oww(!)” said Harmony.

“Uh, guys?” Sunday pointed out, expressing absolute certainty in an interrogative tone as only she could, “it’s almost four o’clock already? I _don’t_ think we really want the sun coming up _while_ we’re fighting the Slayer.”

“I guess she’ll keep till tomorrow night,” Edwards suggested doubtfully.

“Maybe,” Spike mused, “but she’s going to be mightily pissed off in the morning when she finds out three dozen of her little school chums have disappeared. That puts us right back on the waiting for payback plan. We need a better idea.”

“I have a better idea,” Sunday suggested coolly.

“Oh yeah?” Spike challenged, “What’s that then?”

She smiled. “Let’s ‘send a message’ to the County Prosecutor. One that says, ‘Hi, I’m Buffy Summers and I need to be arrested because I like to burn things down.’”

Spike smiled slowly, appreciatively, nodding his approval. “It can’t be this place, though,” he mused. “They might blame Angel first. Even if we leave them plenty of incriminating clues, we’ll still have the Slayer on our hands while they’re sorting it out.

“It has to be something that immediately says ‘Buffy’ not ‘Angel,’” Edwards agreed.

“Well,” said Tiffany. “Buffy likes to burn down school buildings. She’s famous for it.”

“Brilliant!” said Spike “If we burn down the school, she won’t be able to come in through the Church that way, even if she’s still loose tomorrow. She’ll have to come up through the tunnels, and we’ll be ready for her.”

 ***

Giles awoke before dawn. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to Buffy’s deep, even breathing. He couldn’t go back to sleep. The euphoria that had followed the epiphany of his proposal to Buffy and the miracle of her acceptance was wearing off. There were too many important variables over which he had no control. There was too much hanging in the balance. He thought of the Chariot card from the Tarot, the horses rushing in different directions. A symbol of duality, inconsistency, chaos. He was not interested in chaos. He had had his fill of it long ago. But then, those two horses also represented reason and passions, the two motive forces of the human spirit, the team that together made life livable and worth living. The trick, of course, was to get them to pull together.

He was tempted to have a drink to settle his nerves, but he had a sneaking suspicion his nerves were getting entirely too used to being settle that way lately. Too much reliance on the philosophy of Brother Malt could easily become a bit unseemly for (he chuckled to himself) a family man. Instead, he set to work on his next Official Report to the Council, describing Buffy’s many accomplishments over the last few days in as much intricate and glowing detail as possible, holding back information that was over due to be reported. It was an exercise in what American politicians called ‘spin’ and the rest of the English speaking world propaganda, though the accomplishments themselves had at least ‘the modest and minor virtue of being true.’

Buffy probably really was the most talented and effective Slayer of the twentieth going on twenty-first century, he realized. Given her (to be generous) ‘unconventional’ approach to every single aspect of her calling, he couldn’t help but wonder if the Council were upholding the wrong conventions. More likely it was simply another case of the rules didn’t apply to Buffy. She was... a law unto herself, a force of nature. Buffy was Buffy.

Buffy rolled over and sighed uneasily in her sleep, reaching for him. He lay back down and put his arms around her. “You’re here,” she muttered, still more asleep than awake. “I thought they took you away.”

“No,” he assured her, resisting the impulse to say ‘never’, “I’m here.”

“Mmmmm,” she mumbled, snuggling against him, dozing off again, comforted, secure. He had the frightening realization that he had made himself more or less entirely responsible for her comfort and security. A responsibility on which he knew he could not entirely deliver. What could he do to justify her faith in him? It wasn’t the vampires that bothered him. She didn’t expect him to protect her from those. It was the things that he was a part of from which Buffy needed protecting. From the Council; from Cruciamentum.

Could he do it? Could he ... incapacitate Buffy and send her weakened, defenseless to fight a monster that could tear her apart like a tiger ripping at tissue paper? What kind of a man was he if he could? If he couldn’t? And if she died, would she realize that he had sent her to her death? Would she die never knowing why, believing he had simply betrayed her? Would she be right? If she returned, what would he say to her? ‘Congratulations on surviving a barbaric ritual with no other purpose than to prove your worth to a lot of fools who ought to know it already, what’s for dinner?’

That proving herself to the Council was important in itself, that it was worth some risk to her life, was a point of view he felt certain that Buffy would never be able to see. Of course, the Council would see that as his failing, perhaps with some justification. Any Watcher worth his salt would have done more to manage the Slayer’s point of view, to inculcate in her the beliefs and values the Council expected of her. While it was true that Buffy didn’t take inculcating very well, it was also true that he could have done more on the cerebral side of her training. He could have done more to help her understand the history of the institution of the Council and her place in it. He’d judged her at first too quickly, too harshly, as someone who could not adhere to the demands of a rigorous course of study and then... the pace of events had taken over. Somehow they had never gotten back on track. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to do more to prepare her for what was coming. After all, the time they had ahead of them was about three quarters as long as the time they had behind them. He was convinced now that Buffy could learn quite a lot in ten months if she put her mind to it, if she accepted the importance of it. He’d simply have to make her understand (he sniffed, a ghost of a laugh) without telling her the most important thing that could have helped her to believe it.

Of course, he realized, most of these thoughts were predicated on the utterly unwarranted assumption that he would still be Buffy’s Watcher ten months from now. In all likelihood, he would be replaced the minute their relationship came to light, probably by someone who met all of the objections that had been thrown at his selection for this assignment. Someone without a colorful past, someone more... by the book. Someone completely inadequate to deal with Buffy in any sense, let alone be of any help to her.

No, he would have to do the job of being Buffy’s Watcher even if someone else had the title, the paycheck and the support of the Council. It would be trick enough to maneuver to be _allowed_ to stay in Sunnydale without defying the Council and incurring its considerable wrath to do so. On the plus side, if his work were unofficial, he wouldn’t have to actually participate in that bloody test. Would that help Buffy to forgive him? Would it help him to forgive himself? It’d certainly be a fine excuse to give a child. ‘I let them kill your mother, but I didn’t participate.’ Insoluble.

Giles held Buffy’s warm sleeping body close against him and smoothed her hair back from her face. He thought of the phrase she had used a few hours earlier to express the sincerity, the permanence of her devotion: ‘from here to eternity.’ No doubt in her frame of reference it was an almost entirely positive statement; romantic, defiant, perhaps with just a hint of mortality on the horizon: sex on the soon to be bloodstained beach, not arrogance blundering happily towards damnation. _‘...and bears it out, even unto the edge of doom....’_ Well they were always within hailing distance of the edge of doom. There was no way of knowing that she (or he) would be alive in another ten months.

He kissed the pulse points in her temple and her throat. He felt the blood coursing through his own veins. They were alive today, and, as it was written, the evil of the day was indeed sufficient thereto. ‘Angel’ might have been gone to his eternal rest, and that was all well and good for him, but Angelus the vampire was still out there somewhere meditating day and night on the cruelest way to destroy Buffy. Neither he nor Spike was likely to take kindly to the news of Drusilla’s demise. Perhaps it was a bit premature, a bit self indulgent even, to begin lying awake nights over Cruciamentum just yet.

*** 

“Drag all those book cases out into the hallway there,” Spike instructed. We don’t have nearly enough fuel to collapse the whole building. What we want to do is concentrate the damage around the entrance to the basement so that she can’t go down that way.”

The basement door swung open and Harmony emerged. “Well?” said Spike expectantly.

“I didn’t find any oil or paint thinner or any of that stuff you told me to look for,” said Harmony, seeming strangely pleased with herself, “but I had a better idea.”

“Which was?” Spike inquired skeptically.

“I opened the gas valve. Now we can blow the whole place up.” She stood there grinning, wanting a pat on the head. Her smile faltered a little as she took in the shocked, horrified looks all around her.

“You did what!?!” Spike demanded angrily, demon faced, slamming her against the wall so hard she thought her skull might have cracked a little. Did that matter if you were a vampire? It sure as hell hurt like it mattered. Unlike in life, the pain made Harmony more mad than scared.

“I turned the gas on,” she snarled back, baring her fangs at him. “More fuel, like you said.”

Spike looked at Sunday, who nodded and gave Miranda a shove towards the stairs. “Shut the valve off,” she said, “Then go sniff and see how much has gotten into the tunnels.” Edwards silently went with her. Spike threw Harmony against the book cases they had brought from the library, turning them over. She scrambled sullenly to her feet and stood pouting with her arms folded.

“It’s pretty bad,” Miranda confirmed when she came back up a few minutes later. The tunnels are filling up pretty quick. We put out the candles in the...” she shuddered, “Church. Mr. Edwards looked like he was going to have a stroke.”

“What?” said Harmony petulantly, “How was I supposed to know?”

“Ahhhggg!” Spike half grunted, half screamed in frustration. Grabbing the girl by her hair and swinging her around like a human, he threw her to the ground, kicking and stomping her as she tried to scuttle away from him. The crowd backed away a little, some looking amused, others horrified. Sunday seemed moderately contemptuous and mildly worried.

Harmony had her back to the wall now and the pile of book cases blocking her on one side. She wept and begged for mercy as Spike kicked her a dozen more times, then actually got down on the floor to punch her in the face. “Why...” He bashed her in the temple, with his right fist. “Can’t...” He brought his left up under her chin banging her jaws together, cracking more than a few teeth. “Anything...” He gave her a hard right jab to the nose. “I do...” When she tried to turn her face away he boxed her on the ear, “Ever...” He slammed the back of her head into the wall, cracking her shoulder against the corner of the wall and the floor at the same time. Sunday cocked her head in the direction of the nearest exit. “Workout...” he rained redundant blows upon his insensible victim. “... Anymore!”

Spike lay on the floor next to Harmony’s unconscious body, weeping. “You’ve lost your audience,” said one of the Aurelian Brothers with quiet contempt. Spike looked up to find that he was alone with the two cultists. The other nine vampires had left.

“Over a woman!” said the second Brother, scornfully. “Why should we follow you? Why should we help Angelus for that matter?” he added, addressing his colleague now. “Let’s take the army and go kill the Slayer ourselves.”

Spike got to his feet. “You’re not taking _my_ army anywhere, Mate!” he said menacingly. The two Aurelians laughed loudly, but not long.

*** 

At five a.m. Joyce Summers called the American Eagle desk at the Sacramento Airport. “Our next flight to Sunnydale is the one you’re currently booked on. 2:25 Monday afternoon,” said the attendant in a friendly, encouraging way, as if the news were actually helpful. Joyce tried to be gracious, but it was difficult in her exhausted state, especially knowing she had an eight-hour drive ahead of her, never mind the hour she still had to wait for the car rental to open.

She thought again of the possibility of sending Hank to find Buffy. It was morning now, so wherever he did or didn’t find her couldn’t _prove_ she had stayed out all night in defiance of the Court. Of course, that wouldn’t necessarily prevent him from taking an excessively ‘manly’ attitude with this Mr. Giles who was what? A life coach/personal trainer for budding superheroes? Probably more than a match for her ex-husband. No good could come of that.

Joyce made a different phone call instead, to someone who she hoped could get her some answers about what kind of a person she was actually dealing with in Rupert Giles, someone she knew she could count on to use discretion. Then she lay back, fully clothed, on the motel bed. She would wait until six o’clock and try Buffy at home once more. Then she would rent a car and head back to Sunnydale. It had been foolish, she realized to think that she could leave Buffy alone, could trust her to be responsible, just because there had been... reasons for most of her prior risky behavior. If Buffy had really been ‘chosen’ to protect the world from demons, that meant her mother had to worry about her safety (and her conduct) more, not less.

 ***

When the girl’s battered body landed on the floor in front of him, Edwards looked up. “Where are the others?” he said coolly. Spike didn’t answer right way. He sat down on a fallen slab of marble and hid his face in his hands. Edwards made a noise of contempt. “You let them see your grief.” He surmised.

“I cried like a bitty baby, alright,” Spike spat hatefully. “The kiddies split for parts unknown while I was bashing up the little girl. The Brethren hung around and forced me to kill them.”

Edwards cursed with quiet conviction. “You’ve lost a fourth of our army in one night,” he said thinly, “and gotten nothing for it.”

“I noticed,” Spike replied with a tight smile. “On the other hand, we have got twenty-six more recruits waiting to rise. That brings us up to fifty-three. More than enough to take the fight to the enemy.”

“Assuming Sunday hasn’t stopped by the pump station on her way to ‘parts unknown,’” Edwards pointed out sourly. “And it’ll take at least three or four days to get the lot of them on their feet. Hell,” he added nodding at Harmony, “it’ll take two days to get _her_ back on her feet. We’re defenseless here.”

Spike laughed bitterly. That had been the idea of course. He hadn’t had any notion six hours ago that he would ever want to protect the Church, to complete the ritual. But now it was one of his top contingency plans. He wanted revenge on the Slayer by any means necessary. If he couldn’t manage it himself in the meantime, Angel might be his last best chance. Also, more than incidentally, Edwards was the last person left who knew the real score with the army, the last person he could trust to act as his right hand. He had to show that getting him what he needed out of the arrangement was a priority.

Spike ruminated a moment. “Go down to the pump station and bring up half a dozen vamps. Big, not too smart. Bring all the sleepers with you. We’ll tell them we got hit by the Slayer, heavy casualties, sent the survivors out to beef up the sentry posts.” And this was why Edwards hadn’t dispatched Spike when he was lying on the floor all but begging for death. Even on his worst night (and this was certainly his worst night) Spike had a head for strategy. They needed strategy to keep the Slayer at bay until the new moon rose.

Edwards picked up the girl, Harmony, and carried her into the cloak room with Angel and Zanya. “Look after her,” he said, giving Zanya a kiss on the forehead. She nodded solemnly as her man, her boy, her sire headed out to deal with business.

*** 

“How many missing?” Snyder demanded.

“Forty,” Ron repeated grimly. “Thirty-six of them your students. Four of the boys were from other schools, but they all disappeared going to or from that damn dance. Bob called me in as soon as he had a sense of the scope of the thing. We’re forming a task-force. Hopefully that’ll delay the State Police or the FBI getting involved until we have a better idea what kind of... information we have to manage.”

“We _know_ what there is to cover up,” Snyder countered. “Vampires! Who else could do something like this! They’ve gone too far, this time they’ve gone too damn far! It’s a direct attack on my school. I won’t have it!”

“The school is definitely the target,” the Sheriff agreed, “whoever’s responsible. Paulson and Greer went to check it out with a couple of Bob’s guys. It looked like someone was about to start a fire then just... changed their mind. They piled a bunch of book shelves from the library in the main hallway and poured a little bit of accelerant on some of them. There was a barrel of gasoline just sitting there.”

“Were many books ruined?” Snyder asked hopefully. “Were they occult books?” It’d be nice to get a _little_ good news tonight.

“Math and Science,” said Ron. Snyder cursed. Those he would have to pay good money to replace. “Fire doesn’t sound much like vampires,” Ron pointed out.

“Not usually,” Snyder agreed. He smiled grimly, “I know who it does sound like,” he said.

“The Summers girl?” said Ron more than a little skeptically. “How would that explain the forty missing kids?”

“I don’t know. Yet.” Snyder admitted. “Maybe she’s... stirred the vampires up somehow.”

“Maybe,” said Ron with a definite lack of conviction. “Anyway, Terry and his guys are putting in those grates today, and pouring the concrete in the holes we know about. Hopefully we can stop them coming in in the daytime at least. As for the nights, I spoke with the Mayor. He’s agreed to ask the City Council to impose a ten p.m. curfew on juveniles.”

“Ten p.m.!” Snyder was incredulous. “That’s four and a half hours after sunset!”

“We’ll be lucky to get that,” Ron pointed out. “Any earlier and the Chamber will cut the legs out from under it.”

“Greedy bastards,” Snyder spat. “Those kids can’t go out and spend money if they're all dead.”

“Actually,” Ron pointed out, “they can. Vampires do a lot of spending in this town. Anyway, Cranston has the rest of the Chamber under his spell—probably literally— and he doesn’t make a dime before eight o’clock.”

“Cranston,” Snyder said, at once hateful and contemplative. “This dance was at his place. Can’t we use that to put any pressure on him? Shouldn’t he have some responsibility for security?”

“I think that’s how we’re getting him to agree to ten o’clock,” Ron admitted.

Snyder sighed in frustration. Giving up the subject of the club owner’s culpability for the time being, he returned to his eternal theme. “I know, some way somehow, this is all going to lead us back to Buffy Summers.”

“I wonder...” said Ron contemplatively. “The Rosenberg case was definitely vampire. I read the coroner’s report.”

“So?” said Snyder.

“So, the girl positively I.D.ed the killer as her ex-boyfriend ‘Angel’.”

Snyder snorted contemptuously. “I wouldn’t put it past Summers to screw a vampire.”

“You're missing the point,” said Ron crossly, “if the girl really is pregnant, then she’s been screwing around on this vampire. This whole thing could be some kind of...domestic dispute. I guess you know what everybody’s saying about your librarian.”

“No!” said Snyder defiantly. “That is not happening, not in my school. It’s impossible.”

“It’d go a long way to explaining the Calendar case,” Ron pointed out. “Payback with interest. It’d also explain that B.S. about the stolen car and why somebody ripped the door off his office, not to mention the aborted book burning. Something has to be stirring those damned ghosts up too. I’ve never seen them this bad. The music room was completely demolished.”

“I’m telling you, it didn’t happen,” Snyder insisted. “Even if he was... inclined that way... a girl with a body like that can pick and choose better playmates than Rupert Giles. She knows it too.”

Ron knew better than to try and argue with R.C. when he was in that frame of mind or to ever try to convince him of a fact that didn’t already fit his world view. His cousin had been born with a talent for looking at giants and seeing windmills. Ron was convinced that was the main reason the Mayor wanted him in this position. It was part of the workings of the whole sick system. It was the same with local law enforcement. They were meant to keep the trains running on time despite the rising tide, to keep the chaos just contained enough that people would keep getting up every morning and going to work, shopping at the mall, sending their kids to school, pretending everything was alright. The point was not to keep the people safe, but to keep them from leaving. Even at that they were failing. Forty kids disappearing in one night was enough to start a mass exodus.

‘Good,’ said a deep, hidden part of him with bitter conviction. But nothing was that simple and he knew it. It was too late to start getting sentimental and idealistic again after all these years. He had too much invested. _He_ was part of the whole sick system. He needed those trains to run on time. He had to find an explanation that people could accept. He’d have settled for scapegoating some handy undesirable, but he also had to stop something like this from happening again tomorrow or the next night.

“Well...” Ron said, “We’ll keep working all the angles. If there is anything... scandalous involving the school, we’ll do our best to keep it out of the papers and let you handle it.”

“Thanks,” said Snyder grudgingly. “Just... keep me posted. From now on, the minute anything happens to one of my students, I want to know about it.”

 ***

Most of the girls wept and shrieked as they were taken from the chain one by one and dragged into the sanctuary. This one faced her captors with sullen, childish defiance. Even when she could see the drained shell of the girl who had gone before her being lowered to the floor, the place of honor being cleared for its new occupant, this girl only pouted and glared at them. “Where’s Pete?” she demanded. “What have you done with my boyfriend?”

Spike smiled grimly. Love of course. He should have known. Love was the only thing that could make you stupid enough not to fear death. “He’s over there somewhere I expect,” he said cocking his head with calculated nonchalance towards the bodies laid end to end along the far wall.

“If Pete’s going to be a vampire,” she persisted stubbornly, ignoring the fact that she was being lifted off her feet, “then you have to make me one too. Pete needs me. We have to be together.”

“You know,” said Spike, mock contemplative, “I’m really sort of tempted. You’re not bad looking, south of the face anyway, and you don’t lack for courage, I’ll give you that. Not much in the brains department, but still...” The girl was starting to look a little more frightened now that that she was actually being hoisted upside down, but she was keeping it together impressively. “The problem is,” he explained, putting on a businesslike we-regret-to-inform-you kind of voice, “pure virgin blood is the high dollar commodity around here these days, and yours’d be no good if it got all mixed up with mine.”

Spike flashed a cordial, half apologetic smile at the slightly trembling young woman. “Stick her!” he commanded a large muscular vamp in camo pants and an Army green T-shirt. The girl's eyes widened, terrified at last, as the hollow metal spike was driven into her throat and blood began to pour from it into the pool below. “Which is what your boyfriend should have done,” Spike opined coolly, “if he needed you so bleeding much.”

 ***

Buffy woke up feeling queasy as per the new usual. She’d kind of hoped that was part of the whole ghost thing, since you weren’t even technically supposed to have symptoms this early she didn’t think. Oh well, she reminded herself, looking over at the man sleeping beside her, since when did what was ‘supposed’ to happen have anything to do with _her_ life?

He looked older lying there asleep, maybe because she was able to study him more closely or possibly because the lines and creases around his mouth and eyes lay heavier without the animation of his personality. His hair was that dull shade of brown in which a few gray hairs don’t do much to announce themselves, but there they were in the clear pale light of early morning. His hair was maybe a little thinner than it had been this time last year too, just around the temples. Paradoxically, these first small signs of impending decline, though not attractive in themselves, stirred her heart with warmth and affection. His mortality, of which they were evidence, seemed to make him more precious somehow. ‘Act now. Supplies are limited.’

Buffy’s stomach stirred uneasily again, reminding her that she needed to put something in it before badness ensued. She got up and headed for the kitchen. Her kitchen? Were wives still expected to cook the almost-twenty-first century? Moms were she guessed. The question was currently moot. Apparently Giles hadn’t made it to the grocery store since getting out of the hospital three days ago. No surprise with all that had been going on. The milk was visibly spoiled. There was no cereal anyway. She found a couple of slices of bread (stale but not moldy) and started rummaging around in the cabinets for a toaster.

Nothing was where she expected to find it. Where there should have been small appliances, there were canisters of flour, sugar, coffee, etc. There were pots and pans where the food should have been. What she couldn’t help thinking of as the silverware drawer contained an extremely neat assortment of things that should have been tossed somewhere haphazardly: loose screws, bits of string, wooden matches, sticks of incense? (for Hellmouth purposes, hopefully); all slotted into a custom made tray that had lost a fight with a label maker. The canned goods were alphabetized. She couldn’t decide if that was adorable or horrifying. Split the difference and call it ‘quirky.’

When she found the peanut butter she gave up on the toast and made a sandwich, which turned out to be exactly what she wanted. ‘The winding path of destiny,’ she thought with amusement. Sitting in that quiet, cramped, only half familiar kitchen, eating her meager breakfast, Buffy felt... lonely, in need of reassurance. She resisted the urge to wake Giles up so that he could put his arms around her. He probably needed his sleep. It was probably a little early to call Willow too, even with so much to tell her.

She decided to call home and check her messages. There were seven of them. All from her mother, in progressive states of distress. Damn. She had just spoken to her twelve hours ago. Feeling resentful and obligated, she found her purse—lying on the living room floor—and rummaged through it to find the scrap of paper where she had written the number of the Merry Day Inn Sacramento.

“Hello?” Joyce answered groggily, on the third ring.

“Mom?” said Buffy hesitantly, “I got your messages.”

“Buffy! Thank God!” her mother exclaimed with excessive relief, then with equally excessive anger, “Where have you been!?! I called a dozen times!”

“I ... had to take care of something,” said Buffy annoyed, in no mood to explain or justify last night’s Hellmouth adventures, let alone... anything else. “What’s the what, Mom?”

“I was up all night,” Joyce informed her.

“I don’t know why,” said Buffy, getting rankled now. “I can take care of myself.”

“Were you slaying?” Joyce demanded, as if it were a bad thing.

“Yes, I was, Mom” Buffy said, “and I did a great job, by the way. Killer ghosts are history. Yay me, if nobody else is going to say it.”

“Why didn’t you call me when you got in?”

“It was after midnight,” Buffy pointed out, trying to remember what the time stamp had been on Joyce’s last message. “I _thought_ you’d be asleep.”

“I called again three hours ago,” Joyce challenged. “You sound like you’ve slept more than three hours.”

“I... must have slept through it,” Buffy insisted.

“Have you been home at all?” Joyce demanded. “Are you home now or... somewhere else?”

Buffy hesitated. Her mother sounded like she had a specific somewhere else in mind. “I’m at home,” she said finally, with all the conviction she could muster though, even apart from how her mother would see it, the statement felt less true than it had last night. “I’m sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast,” she added for the solidity of detail.

“So if I hang up and call the house right now, you’ll pick up?” Joyce persisted.

Damn. “No,” said Buffy with what she hoped was convincing sarcasm, “I’m _lying_ about eating my breakfast. Look, Mom,” she added more gently, trying to shift the focus from where she had spent the night back to her slaying, “I know you worry about me, but you can’t sit up ringing your hands every time I stay out late. I’m the Slayer; mythic, supernatural, there-can-be-only-one warrior type. I mean, half the point of letting you know that was to get you to understand that sometimes there are reasons why I have to stay out all night.”

“Whatever the reasons, Buffy,” Joyce countered, “things can’t go on this way.”

“Yes, they can,” Buffy assured her. “They have to.”

“Who says?” Joyce demanded, “Mr. Giles? This... ‘Council’?”

“It’s fate, Mom,” Buffy explained tiredly. “Giles has nothing to do with it except... helping me deal. He has my back. I need that, but it’s not what makes me the Slayer.”

Joyce sighed heavily, “I know it seems like you have to do these things, like no one else can do them and you have to be the hero, but...” she hesitated, trying to say exactly what she meant, “my father was a hero too. I don’t want that for you. Nothing’s worth your life, Buffy.”

“Yes,” Buffy corrected her mother, “some stuff is.”

“Not to me, it’s not,” Joyce insisted.

“Mom, it’s not up to you,” said Buffy.

“Yes it is,” Joyce protested, “I’m your mother.”

“But I’m not a little girl,” Buffy countered, “You said it yourself. If I’m going to be a mom I have to stop being a kid? The same thing is true of being the Slayer. It’s not just about one life depending on me. All life is depending on me. Whatever the forces of darkness get by with, it’s on me. It’s on my watch. You can’t change that. _I_ can’t change that. I need you to let me do what I have to do.”

“So what am _I_ supposed to do?” Joyce asked forlornly.

“Mom,” said Buffy firmly but not unkindly, “go buy art.”

“So you’re back to deciding you don’t need me after all,” Joyce surmised bitterly. “Whatever guidance, whatever protection you need, this Mr. Giles can handle it? He has your back?”

“Yes, Mom,” Buffy assured her, “he does.” She had the uncomfortable feeling that her mother was nearing some kind of a point, something she felt the need to dance around, to work up to. The truth? She didn’t know. How could she know?

“How much do you really know about him?” Joyce asked.

Then again... “I know enough,” said Buffy flatly.“Giles is Giles. We’ve been fighting a nightly war, side by side for over a year. We’ve saved lives. We’ve saved each other’s lives. We’ve saved the world. He’s... solid, someone to count on. I trust him with my life.”

“And so I’m just supposed to trust him too?” Joyce asked.

“Or you could trust me,” Buffy pointed out. “Mom,” she said seriously, “I’m seventeen-years-old. That may not be the mystical magical number eighteen, but it’s not twelve either. People my age have jobs; they go to college, join the military, get married and have babies. I’m eight month away from being somebody’s mother. If I don’t know how to pick someone to count on by now, then I guess I have bigger problems than whether or not Giles has my back.”

 ***

“Hey,” said Amy worriedly, almost apologetically, “rough night?”

“Kind of,” Willow admitted, eyes downcast. “I don’t really want to talk about it though.”

They stood a long moment on opposite sides of the threshold. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Amy asked finally.

Willow laughed harshly. “Haven’t I already?” she asked, standing aside.

“Ha ha,” said Amy sourly. “I’ve never been anything but good to you, one way or another,” she insisted, coming inside and closing the door. “I don’t know why you have to be such a bitch about it.”

“Did you want something?” Willow asked, struggling for a more civil tone.

“I... wanted to see if there was any news on the uh... ghost... fighting thing,” Amy stated unconvincingly.

“You could have called Giles for that,” Willow pointed out.

“I also wanted to see you,” Amy admitted.

“You mean you wanted to see him,” Willow grumbled.

“You are him,” Amy pointed out.

“I’m not or... maybe I am, but... he’s not _me_.”

“That makes perfect sense,” said Amy sarcastically.

“I don’t know how much sense it makes,” Willow pleaded. “I don’t know how much it _has_ to make. But I do know I’m a girl, and I want to be a girl, I need to be a girl and from now on I’m going to be.”

“So that’s just it?” Amy demanded incredulously, “you’re just done with me?”

“I love Oz,” Willow said firmly.

“How can you?” Amy demanded. “You’re a lesbian! You do realize that don’t you?”

“Yeah well...” Willow returned just as stridently, “maybe I am... kind of.... I don’t know, but you’re not, so what difference does it make?”

“I can try,” said Amy exasperatedly.

“Amy,” Willow whined in a come-on-be-reasonable kind of way, but she felt that increasingly familiar tug of irresistible temptation pulling her down into defeat as Amy approached the boundary of her personal space. She truly wanted to take a step backward. She couldn’t. Amy closed her eyes. Willow kissed her. It felt fifty kinds of wrong against one very, very solid right. Amy made an effort to kiss Willow back. It felt weird but not bad... exactly. With men and gods—and girls she guessed—you had to give them what they wanted to get what you wanted. She’d done stranger things for less. The high pitched, helpless little cry Willow made in her throat was unnerving, but when she put her hands on Amy’s breasts, through her clothes, they didn’t feel that much different than a man’s. Amy kept her eyes closed, picturing Willard’s face.

Willow knew where she wanted to touch Amy. She knew where she wanted Amy to touch her. Her heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t think she had the nerve. Lust struggled against fear, weakness to weakness, like two negatively charged fields repelling each other. She pulled Amy close to her, into her embrace, running her hands up her back under her shirt. She enjoyed the feel of her skin while still beating around the bush... so to speak. Willow unhooked Amy’s bra. Even shaking as she was, Amy noticed, it didn’t seem to give her any trouble. Obligingly, Amy pulled her shirt off over her head. She looked at Willow and smiled nervously. Willow pulled her own shirt over her head and Amy embraced her to unfasten her bra behind her back as she had done once before. They let the garment fall to the floor between them as they kissed again, bare breasts rubbing together. Passion made Willow bolder. Lust defeated fear at last. She unbuttoned Amy’s pants and reached inside. Amy stiffened just a little at her touch but resisted the urge to pull away. With a stab of guilt and self-loathing, Willow continued to caress her most intimate places, pretending not to notice her discomfort. ‘... and makes a welcome of indifference,’ she reproached herself bitterly. But after a few of minutes steady effort, she was able to produce a change in Amy’s breathing and the little noises she made spoke more of pleasure and anticipation than of discomfort or indifference.

“Touch me,” Willow pleaded, “exactly like that.”

“Let’s lay down on the couch,” Amy suggested breathlessly. Willow agreed. Shucking off the rest of her clothes, she lay down and let Amy climb on top of her. Amy kept her panties on, but she put her hands on Willow’s genitals at last and even kissed her breasts. Amy rubbed Willow the way she would have done to herself, mostly touching her outer lips but putting firm indirect pressure on her clitoris. It felt awkward to have to turn her hand the other way, but it seemed to be working alright. In fact, in made her want to be on the receiving end again. With her free hand, she lifted one of Willows very slightly in the direction of her cunt. It was all the encouragement she needed. Willow came before Amy did, but they both got there. Amy wondered if she was supposed to lie there holding Willow in her arms or something, but it didn’t seem to be required. The two girls sat on the couch for a while catching their breath, not looking at each other. For Willow, the experience had been something of an epiphany, as was the fact that, despite having just had one of the best female orgasms of her admittedly short sexual life, what she wanted _now_ more than anything was to be fucked by a man, specifically Oz.

“I’m not a lesbian!” she said in amazement. Amy looked at her skeptically. “No, really,” Willow explained, “I’m... bisexual? Wow, is that actually a real thing?”

“Apparently,” said Amy, with mild amusement. She was just relieved to find out that having lesbian sex was not such an unpleasant chore as she might have imagined. Of course, they hadn’t tried doing... that other thing, yet.

Willow felt... disappointed, sad even. So much for the theory that God made one perfect person for everyone. Now that she knew what it felt like to give and receive sexual satisfaction with another girl, she didn’t _want_ to go the rest of her life without doing it. She didn’t think she should have to. Which meant she was going to have bigger problems pursuing her relationship with Oz than just getting rid of Willard and Amy, which was problem enough all by itself.

“What’s the matter,” Amy asked warily.

Willow sighed. “Nothing,” she said.

And that was exactly what she could do to please her, Amy realized. Nothing.

 ***

Cordelia left Xander another message. Two in two hours. That was two too many. Damn it, she was cooler than that, better than that. He had no right to make her feel like she had something to apologize for. For what? For living almost seventeen years before they were ever together? For having a sex life? For making one miscalculation? For doing the smart thing about it? Were we in religion and politics land here? He hadn’t said so last night. He hadn’t said much of anything. He’d avoided the subject and gotten off the phone. Pretty much like he was doing now.

Of course, it was still technically Saturday morning. He could just be asleep. He could be dreaming right now of his amazing girlfriend and the wonderful life they were going to have together. Sure he could. This was why you didn’t tell guys things they didn’t need to know; because they weren’t wired the same way. They didn’t have the same problems. They wouldn’t understand. It was stupid to think ‘love’ made a difference to that. It was stupid to think ‘love’ made a difference to anything. It was stupid to think you could wipe your slate clean and start over just by choosing to be something different.

*** 

Giles woke up feeling fresher and more optimistic than he had gone to sleep. Of course he noted, it was nearly nine o’clock, so he certainly _ought_ to be rested. There was the distant sound of a tea kettle boiling, telling him that Buffy was absent from his bed, but not from his home, from _their_ home, nor he absent from her thoughts. It was a fair certainty she hadn’t got up with a sudden notion to make _herself_ a cup of tea to start the day. It was a thoughtful, endearingly domestic gesture. He tried to guess if he was supposed to come down stairs and find her bustling about the kitchen or if she was coming back to bed for tea and... something else.

No one could consistently be that lucky Giles decided. He pulled his robe on over his pajamas and headed downstairs. His smile widened when he met Buffy coming through the living room with a tray. She was wearing the top of another set of his pajamas, red and white vertical stripes. She looked like the world’s sweetest candy cane. “Aww,” she pouted, maybe half seriously, “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You never do anything else,” he said. Taking the tea tray from her hands he leaned down and kissed her on the lips. She stood on her tip toes and made it worth his while. He sat the tray down on the coffee table and put his arms around her. “I think I could get used to married life,” he said. Buffy leaned her head on his chest and sighed a little sadly. He smoothed a hand over her hair and sat down with her on the couch. “You’re still worried about... working things out with your mother,” he surmised.

“Yeah,” Buffy admitted, straitening a little, “I am. I talked to her this morning. She’s not dealing all that well with the Slayer thing. Apparently she called me like a dozen times after I left last night. She didn’t sleep. I had to talk her out of renting a car and driving home.”

“Well,” Giles said in his understated British way, “that not good.”

“Duh,” Buffy agreed. “So she wanted to know where I was and I told her I got in late from fighting ghosts and I must have slept through the very latest calls, but I don’t think she bought it. She asked me... how well I really know you.”

“I see,” said Giles worriedly. “She’s... sharper than my first impression of her,” he mused, checking himself before adding, ‘not surprisingly.’

“She’s getting suspicious,” Buffy agreed. “I think when she hears what’s going around at school...”

“She’ll know what to think,” Giles agreed grimly. “When is she getting home?”

“Monday afternoon,” said Buffy. “God! I’m going to kill Amy Madison!” She didn’t sound like she meant it literally but it was close. He sympathized.

“Maybe we should talk to her sooner, rather than later,” Giles suggested. “It’ll be better if she hears it from us, even if not by much.”

“I guess,” said Buffy doubtfully, “but that means taking a chance on being separated sooner rather than later.”

“That’s true,” he agreed. “We really have no way of knowing how hard a line your mother will take.”

Buffy snuggled closer against him. “I don’t want to miss a day with you that I don’t have to,” she said.

“Nor I,” he agreed, “but we can’t go blindly forward holding our breath from one day to the next. Plans have to be made. We need to manage the order of events.”

“Like how?” Buffy asked.

“Well, as I said last night, from a legal point of view, I ought to quit my job at the library yesterday if not sooner. But the Council went to some trouble to get me that job, to allow me to have constant contact with you, and now that we know it also give us 24 hour access to the Hellmouth...”

“If you quit they’ll know something’s up,” Buffy acknowledged.

“And if they send one half competent person to ask, they’ll know what,” he pointed out. “I’d like to avoid that for as long as possible.”

“Which to me says don’t rush to tell Mom,” Buffy suggested reasonably.

“Unless, as we suspect, she’s mere days away from coming to her own conclusions,” he pointed out. “If we talk to her we stand some chance of containing the information. And, even if we can’t... reason with her, at least we’ll know the knock on the door is coming. Ideally, I’d like for us to be married immediately before I resign and immediately after I surrender my teaching license. According to Hal, at least, that’s about the best we can do for minimizing investigation.”

Buffy felt a pang of guilt. “You're... burning a lot of bridges here aren’t you.” She said.

“Have burned,” he corrected her, “past tense. I’m happy with my decision Buffy. Let’s don’t wallow in the cost analysis. This fellow, Engels, is a small town chap, old fashioned. Hal thinks a marriage license, even after the fact, will go a long way with him, whereas in Los Angeles, it would probably just get the book thrown at us. At any rate it will give me a legal right to claim paternity without admitting the underlying facts.”

Buffy cocked her head quizzically at him, “You’re not... marrying me on advice of counsel?” she asked, he couldn’t tell how seriously.

Giles laughed, “Certainly not,” he assured her. “In fact, I believe Hal’s exact words were, ‘get the hell out of Dodge.’”

“Remind me to thank him for that advice the next time we see him,” said Buffy dryly.

“At any rate,” Giles went on, “hopefully, my resignation will be the first solid information Snyder has that the rumors are correct, but once I’ve resigned, the school board will have no power to investigate and if they attempt to contact the State Board of Education they’ll find I’m no longer a license holder, so they won’t investigate unless I apply for reinstatement, which I won’t. That leaves Engels, Children’s Services, the INS and the Council. You being seventeen, Children’s Services won’t care as long as I’m not working with students. INS won’t care if Engels doesn’t, except that I will have to change the basis on which I’m claiming permanent residency from a work related to a family related status, but Hal thinks that’ll work out without an interruption in status, at least unless the Council weighs in against us.”

Buffy’s brow furrowed. “Can they do that? They’re not even from this country.”

Giles laughed. “The Council is the oldest extant human institution in the entire world, Buffy, older than any nation state, older even than the Roman Catholic Church and arguably as powerful though not in such an... overt way. They may be based in London, but they operate at a level higher than national boundaries, they’re... embedded everywhere, manipulating bureaucracies, pulling political strings, trading influence; they’re the best in the world. They can do what they damn well want to us, and they will too.”

“Wow,” Buffy said, “when we make enemies we really pull out all the stops, don’t we?”

“The Council are not our enemies, Buffy,” Giles corrected her seriously, “They’re too big, too complex, too... personality driven to ever be united in anything, except perhaps the War Against the Darkness. But certain people in the Council are our enemies, or will be, and they can make life very difficult for us. I just need to think of a strategy to... outmaneuver them until we can reach some kind of an accommodation. I still have... one or two possible allies I can talk to, though they are not likely to be very sympathetic to our... circumstances.”

Buffy thought for a moment. “This Watcher deal,” she said, “it’s a family thing, right? Will your relatives help us out at all?”

The harshness of Giles laughter startled her. “They’re all my relatives one way or another. Probably no more so than a lot of other people, but we have the genealogies to prove it, going back in some case to the time of Christ. Unfortunately, my father and I are both only children, as was my grandmother, so none of them is closer than a third or fourth cousin. That’s nothing to trade on, I’m afraid.”

“So you come from a long line of shirkers?” said Buffy, not without amusement.

“Something like that,” Giles admitted. He seemed troubled for a moment. Buffy expected him to elaborate, but he didn’t.

Buffy squeezed Giles’ hands and gave him a small kiss. It must have been hard for him, she realized, not having any family to speak of. Buffy had always loved being an only child, getting all of the attention, all the presents, all the praise (and of course later on all the blame and discipline which was less fun) but she had to admit she’d never really thought about what that meant when your parents were gone. She thought again, regretfully, of the way things were with her own father. How terrible would it be if he died without ever speaking to her again? She hoped her mother was right about him coming around. But then, he had more to come around about than he or her mother yet realized.

Giles sighed, squeezing her hand affectionately in return. “Let’s... not worry about all of that right now,” he said, pulling her onto his lap, his smile returning. “Let’s enjoy our ‘tea for two’, shall we?”

*** 

Xander stared at the answering machine. He needed to call Cordelia back. If he didn’t she would think there was something wrong. Was there? No there wasn’t. He just... didn’t want to talk to her right now. Okay, so that was something wrong, but nothing he wouldn’t get over. He just... didn’t like thinking of her that way, as somebody else’s girl, as someone with a Past, the kind you had to spell with a capital letter. Of course, he had known, within reason, that she wasn’t a virgin, or probably not, but still... that wasn’t quite the same as having to do the math to see who it added up to. Other math kept trying to do itself in his head, but he resisted. He didn’t usually have that much trouble not doing math.

The fact that she ‘loved Kevin so much,’ that she’d still be with him if only she could, competed for head space with the fact that she’d let someone like Mitch do her just for the sake of doing it. Either by itself would have been easier to take than the fact that both were true. What was he? The happy medium? Adequately beloved and conveniently available? The lucky runner up who could serve in Kevin’s stead, below who’s name the list of possible replacement candidates continued?

March minus May equals... There was no good there.

He should call Cordelia. He knew he should call Cordelia. Soon, but not right now.

*** 

“I didn’t know you still played the guitar,” Buffy said. She was poking about the room, exploring things while Giles watched her over the top of the newspaper he was trying—with little success and less regret—to read. She picked up his old acoustic six string from where she’d found it propped in a corner and held it out to him.

He smiled, folded the paper and laid it on the coffee table next to the tea try. “Yes well, I admit, I hadn’t touched it in months until Thursday night,” he said, taking the instrument from her.“Romantic angst is terribly inspiring, that’s why Rock’N’Roll was invented by teenagers.”

“Hummmm, so we _can_ do something right,” Buffy teased, leaning down to kiss his lips.

“A couple of things,” he admitted, grinning, pulling her down beside him and into a one armed embrace, “at least one of which is also very inspiring. I just wish I could remember a tenth of the music I used to know,” he added, fumbling through a few measures of something that might have been “Stairway to Heaven”.

“What does this inspire?” she murmured snuggling against him, nuzzling his neck, nibbling at his earlobe.

He strummed vigorously at the guitar, producing what sounded like a musical translation of a sexual act. “The House-rent Blues” he explained, grinning, “at least I remember that much of it.”

“Mmmm,” she said, turning towards him and pulling his face to hers, kissing him deeply, her fingers lanced in his hair, “sounds like someone’s awfully excited about the rent.”

“Yes,” Giles murmured noncommittally, fumbling for a different tune, suddenly reminded of the time in his life when he’d paid his rent to Deidre Page, who did indeed tend to get quite excited about it as she was the one with her name on the lease and her neck in the noose as it were. He tried to think of something to play that connected more specifically to Buffy. He strummed a few bluesy notes of “Leila” smiling to himself, guiltily amused by the irony (or Byrony) of the connections it made in his mind, glad Buffy couldn’t hear what he was thinking. Happily struck by a new inspiration, pleasantly surprised to find that he remembered every note and almost every word (thus justifying every single hour he had ever spent tripping his ass off listening over and over to the White Album) he began a fairly passable rendition of Paul McCartney’s “I Will.”

Buffy leaned her head on Giles’ shoulder and closed her eyes, listening to him croon what she had always thought of as an extremely sappy old love song. Somehow, it didn’t sound sappy when he sang it just for her. His voice was beautiful. He radiated love and sincerity. It made her want to weep with joy to think that his child was growing inside of her. For the first time, she was starting to comprehend the often repeated assertion of certain members of his generation, that love was a radical act. That the law was against their love seemed sufficient to justify a revolution. The doorbell rang. “Thought police,” said Buffy matter-of-factly.

“No doubt,” Giles smiled, standing up, setting Buffy on her feet and heading towards the door. Half way there, he paused and turned around to ask, “Did I just ‘get’ one of your references?”

Buffy shrugged, “Yeah,” she teased, “but don’t worry, it was probably something I had to read for English class at some point.”

He looked pleased-to-be-annoyedly-amused at her, shaking his head. Then his brow furrowed a little as he thought of how close they actually were to bringing the mighty powers of the world crashing down on their heads. The bell rang again. “Maybe you’d better...” he jerked his chin in the direction of the stairs. Buffy nodded and scurried up and out of sight.

Giles put his guitar back in the coat closet and opened the door. The man standing on his threshold was eighty if he was a day. He could have been ninety in fact, but he stood on his own two feet, only slightly stooped, without the aid of any canes or other devices. He was wearing a brown suit and a dark tie. He flashed his driver’s license like it was a badge. “Rupert Giles,” he said without a hint of uncertainty, “B.F. Wallace. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I’m sorry?” said Giles as genuinely puzzled as he had ever been in his life. Then, suddenly, he was shocked instead. One of the few pieces of solid information he had gotten when he’d shipped out for Sunnydale was a genealogy (complete to five generations, with further research pending) of Buffy Summers. Now, standing before him in the living flesh, was an entry he’d hardly taken notice of. ‘B.F. Wallace 1910—’ somehow he’d forgotten that that dash had nothing after it. Nothing except ten years with the San Francisco Police, five with Army CID during the War and another twenty-eight as a homicide detective in L.A. afterward.

“B.F. Wallace,” the old man repeated.

“You’re Joyce Summers’ grandfather,” Giles acknowledged. Then, remembering himself, “please, won’t you come in.”

“Looks like you were expecting me,” Wallace said in that politely suspicious way that policemen sometimes managed. “Or maybe I’m not your first visitor this morning.”

“Ah,” said Giles, taking note of the two empty tea cups on the tray with the no longer steaming tea pot. He didn’t bother to try to explain. Obviously the ancient detective had his suspicions, or he wouldn’t be here. Clearly Joyce had sent him to investigate, but what had she told him exactly?

Wallace seated himself with a polite nod of acknowledgment in response to Giles’ equally polite invitation. He didn’t seem upset in the least, which made it difficult to imagine that he expected to find Buffy half-naked hiding upstairs. Then again, one probably didn’t last over four decades investigating serious, violent crimes by wearing his heart on his sleeve in front of his suspects. “So how do you know my granddaughter?” Wallace asked conversationally.

“Joyce?” Giles asked.

“No Darlene,” he said with cheerful sarcasm. Giles managed a small laugh. He had the rather disquieting thought that he was in fact talking to 12½% of Buffy.

“I know her daughter, actually. Buffy goes to my school. I’m her... librarian.” He hadn’t meant to hesitate but he had, and he had the feeling the sharp old bastard had noticed. Also, one didn’t usually describe librarianship in terms of a personal relationship. Still, Wallace wasn’t giving much away. “I’m not sure I quite understand why you’re here,” said Giles finally.

The old man smiled. He didn’t smile like a grandfather. He smiled like a detective who was getting the best of someone. Giles couldn’t help but feel slightly unnerved. “It’s an unusual career change, for a museum curator to become a high school librarian.”

“Yes it is,” said Giles blandly.

“Motivated by a love of children, I suppose,” Wallace countered, finally jabbing towards the heart of the matter.

Giles smiled benignly. “Or of books, perhaps. Words, possibly.”

“You change careers a lot for such an educated man.” It was a statement, almost an accusation, certainly not a question.

“I guess I’m not quite steady enough for forty-three years in law enforcement,” said Giles pleasantly enough.

“Sixty-five years actually,” Wallace responded, “though I’d be interested in how you learned about the first forty-three. Seems like a strange thing for a girl to mention to her... librarian.”

“She’s a strange girl,” Giles pointed out evenly.

“A smart one though. She’d have gotten the numbers right. I’ve never been good at staying retired, but I recon I will this time, thanks to this damn heart valve. The last time I was retired was in the late eighties. Buffy was just a tiny little thing then: five, six, seven.” Giles kept his expression politely neutral, waiting for the detective to continue his soliloquy with delusions of mouse trap.

“I was living up in Seattle then with a lady I almost married. When she threw me out, about eight years ago, I had to find something to do with myself, so I got involved with this ‘cold case’ detecting out of the sheriff’s office up there, worked at that for about six years.” Cold cases. Homicide cases. In Seattle. In the early nineties. It _was_ a bloody small buggering world after all.

“See, an old guy like me, they figure is about useless, but if they give you a case that already didn’t close, how much worse can you hash it up?”

Giles smiled ruefully, “So they get the case and the detective out of their hair, two for one, as it were, and then if anything comes of it, jolly-good.” He’d had his share of similar assignments in the purgatorial decade of the late seventies and early eighties when he had been grudgingly re-embraced as a member in ‘good standing’ of the Watcher’s Council.

“Got it in one,” Wallace agreed. “The thing is, we’ve always had a saying in the cold case business. ‘The answer is in the box.’”

Giles smiled ruefully. “I take it my name was in one of your boxes.”

“Two of them, actually,” said Wallace. His tone sharpening a little at last.

“Well, Amanda and Celeste were very close at one time,” Mr. Giles pointed out. “I suppose there are a lot of people’s names in both boxes.”

“Not as many as you might think,” said Wallace evenly.

“You’ve been retired, this time, two years, yes?” Giles asked politely.

“I have,” Wallace acknowledged.

“So you have no official authority to investigate these matters.”

“No,” Wallace admitted.

“You’re here because Joyce Summers asked you to do her a favor. To have... a friend perhaps at the LAPD or somewhere else, run my name through the system to see what kind of a person was... having an influence on her daughter.”

“That’s about it,” Wallace agreed.

“But my name rang a bell,” Giles surmised.

“It’s an unusual name,” Wallace pointed out.

“That it is,” Giles acknowledged. “What is it exactly that you want?”

“I want you to stay away from Buffy,” he said flatly.

“Never gonna happen,” said Giles firmly.

“It might when I tell Joyce about the boxes,” said Wallace, as calmly as ever.

“I didn’t kill those women,” said Giles, thinly, “and I think you know that, since I was in Europe for the first one, or have you forgotten.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Wallace in a harder voice, “but you’re obviously a hell of a lot more to my great-granddaughter than a ‘librarian’ and that ain’t right any way you slice it.”

“Did Joyce tell you exactly what she thought I was to Buffy, or did you reach your own conclusions from what I’ve said just now?” Giles asked.

“That’s not exactly a denial,” Wallace pointed out.

“It’s not an admission either,” said Giles crossly. “There are more relationships between human beings than... lovers or librarians, and Joyce knows it. If she thinks I should stay away from Buffy, she can tell me so herself, even after seeing everything you can dig up about my background, including Seattle. Therefore, it occurs to me that she does not have the slightest idea that you are here and she may be rather displeased to find that you’ve so far exceeded the scope of what she’s asked you to do. From what I gather, if she wanted someone to blunder in here and make wild accusations, she’d have called her ex-husband. And if _you_ want to know what kind of a man I am, I’m not the kind that can be intimidated by an eighty-eight-year-old man waving a round a cold case file and playing word games about my ‘love of children.’ Which is a fairly cheap shot, incidentally, when the individual in question is a young woman of seventeen. We aren’t any of us as young as we were in the late eighties you know.”

“Oh, you’ve got some brass ones haven’t you!” Wallace declared, getting to his feet, showing a little anger at last.

Giles shrugged. The interview was over and they both knew it. The old cop balled both hands into fists at his sides, fuming. “Can I call you a taxi?” Giles asked politely.

“I still drive myself,” said Wallace, curtly. “I drove down from L.A. this morning.”

“Congratulations,” said Giles tartly.

“You think you’re smart, don’t you?” Wallace demanded.

“Most of the time,” Giles admitted coolly.

“There’s nothing smart about crossing me,” Wallace said menacingly.

Giles smiled, “I have a dozen enemies more powerful than you, meaner too.”

“It only takes one,” Wallace pointed out bitterly.

“Too true,” Giles acknowledged. “But you aren’t going to kill me and you don’t know enough to go to the police, on either score. That puts you pretty far down my list of people to watch out for.” ‘If you didn’t have Joyce’s ear,’ he added silently, ‘you wouldn’t be on it at all.’

“Well, I’ll have to see what I can do about that,” Wallace replied with a dangerous smile.

“I’ll look forward to seeing what you can come up with,” Giles scoffed mildly.

Wallace looked like he was resisting something he wanted to say. Impulse defeated will as is usually the case. “Most of my life,” he said, “I haven’t been blessed with an over abundance of family. I lost all of my sisters and my brother to the Spanish Flu when I was eight and the next year my mother was shot to death running a damned city council race for the Women’s Suffrage Party. My wife and I slept on separate continents half the time we were married, then we were divorced twice as long as we were married and she’s been dead a lot longer than that. Kathy was our only child, and I didn’t see much of her between the ages of seven and thirty.

“But when Allen was killed and Kathy came West with Joyce and the twins, my whole life changed. I loved those three little girls more than anything ever loved anything else. I still do. My granddaughter Darlene buried two little girls—it was the flu got one of them— _just_ the flu her father kept saying, never even took her to the hospital ‘til it was too damned late the ignorant bastard—well her and Arlene both have their boys, but Buffy is all that Joyce has. There’s not another damn thing that matters to her in the world.

“Being eighty-eight years old is a lot like the Spanish Flu. You stay bone tired. You ache everywhere all the time. People are dying all around you every day, ‘til you can count on one hand anybody left that matters. There’s times when you think you should just lay down and stay there, times when it feels like you need to sit up just a little bit more to be able to keep breathing and you wonder if it’s really worth the trouble. Then there’s times when someone or something will come along—like as not one of those hand full of people—and remind you that you’re not dead yet. Well now, I may be just a sorry old bag of bones, Mr. Giles, but I’m not dead yet. And, to tell you the truth, I don’t really know if I still have it in me to be ‘enemy’ enough to scare a man like you or not, but believe me when I say, if you do anything to hurt that girl, we’re going to find out.”

Giles did believe him too. He was touched, sobered and genuinely impressed. He’d all but forgotten what it was like to have family that really cared what happened to you and not just how it reflected on them. He was glad that Buffy still had that, regardless of how inconvenient it might be at the moment. He thought of his grandmother. She was never sentimental of course, but fierce, protective. He’d never once doubted that she loved him, even if she didn’t go in for lullabies and kissing scraped knees, even if he’d sometimes wished there was someone in his life who did. “I’ll... keep that in mind,” he mumbled, hardly knowing what else to say.

Wallace sniffed contemptuously, “You do that,” he said, walking out the front door and pulling it firmly to behind him.

 ***

Spike spent most of the morning down at the pump station. Edwards could supervise the ritual, see to the risers, and tend to the wounded. That’s where he wanted to be anyway, where Zanya was. It was good for a leader to get out among the people Spike reasoned. He couldn’t stand to stay in that damned Church one more minute. It had been his bloody idea to dig that cursed tunnel. He should have left bad enough alone. The work being done at the pump station was mostly make work—putting in bunks, needless fortification—to keep everyone busy, disciplined. Spike made his presence felt, inspecting, scolding, glad-handing, being leaderly. But when midday came and everyone settled down to rest, he was left alone with his thoughts.

He had to go to some trouble to be left alone with his thoughts, actually. No less than three females, two of them fairly attractive, offered to keep him company, transparently attempting to insinuate themselves into the inner circle. He wasn’t even tempted. Drusilla was gone. She had ceased to be. Spike’s heart was a raw, bloody fist banging on his chest to get out, longing to follow her. Revenge was reason enough to keep going for now, but it sure as hell didn’t put him in a mood to drink, shag and be merry. The last thing he wanted was some whore pouring herself all over him pretending that rubbing the right nerve endings was the next best thing to love. Instead he headed up the tunnels until he found a spot that was empty and fairly dry. He didn’t have any illusions that he would be able to sleep. He didn’t need that much sleep anyway. Most vampires didn’t. He sat there taking stock of his existence to date.

The first twenty something years had been a dreary, pointless blur, except for— _except for useless sodding sentimental crap that only humans cared about_ —he reminded himself forcefully, lullabies and all that kind of nonsense, the illusion of love without pain, without need, without a dark side. To hell with that. He had been nothing as a man, hardly worthy of the name; indeed, by some definitions entirely excluded. Such a good, clean, virtuous boy, too afraid almost to touch himself in the dark. Mummy’s doting useless darling drip. A pitiful miserable creature.

Then Drusilla had come shining into his life, glowing with darkness that put the sun to flight, and like St. Paul the Persecutor he had been blinded into sight. He had become a new creature, with new desires and old that he was suddenly free to satisfy. Spike was everything William had never been: confident, vital, savage, special. He had been dear, at last, to someone who was dear to him, and together they had been powerful. Many thousands more had wept than once had laughed at him.

God, those first few months had been a hell of heaven! And then she had presented her new creature, proud as any mother could be, to the master of the house. And suddenly, once again, he had been mummy’s darling and daddy’s inconvenience. It had been like traveling backward in time to the years before his mortal father’s death. Except that here there was no pretense of love without desire, without a dark side, without pain. He had grown a lot in those years, built a lot of sodding character.

When Angel had taken off for America with his brand new soul, Drusilla had wept and torn great handfuls of hair from her head. She had been broken, shattered, unmade. Spike had watched and worried over her for weeks, but it had been a blessing in disguise. He’d gotten the job of putting her back together. He had become the Daddy and she was his little princess, pretty pink petals and all, the sweet smile of love on the dark side of his desire.

Like a cat, Drusilla was both a house pet and a predator, cruel and affectionate. She was up for anything. Torture, rape it didn’t matter, as long as it produced the sweat, cleansing, delicate music of suffering. As long as there were tears. She constantly challenged him to new depths of depravity. She had been raised by Angel after all. Left to his own devises Spike might have been a mere work a day vampire, striking from the shadows, killing only to feed, amusing himself through the day with ordinary human pastimes. But the things he did for her, to amuse her, to impress her, had made him a legend. William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers. Spike was a monster feared by those monsters feared.

It had all been blood and peaches until, six months ago, Drusilla had been all but killed by that damned mob in Prague. And then they had come to Sunnydale. It felt like a hundred years ago. It had been such a cleaver plan. Impress the locals with his Slayer slaying, step into the place of the Master, assets and organization ready to go. Then he would be able to find the cure Drusilla needed. Even finding Angel—or what was left of him—here had seemed like the helping hand of fate, once he’d learned what the cure they were seeking entailed.

But Spike had never counted on Buffy. She was just a little bit of a thing, not that that mattered much with Slayers, but still, she made a predators’ heart go pitter pat. The first word that came to mind when you saw her was ‘victim’, but it didn’t take long to get to know her better than that. He’d soon given up the idea that he could merely back her up against a wall and rip her throat out. She was an enemy worth watching, worth studying worth getting to know. He tried her, tested her and he was impressed. He was fascinated by her. She was... a challenge. Yet, in those first few months, he had never doubted that he would kill her by his own hand, that he would have his fill of her blood and any other part of her he happened to fancy. But she’d slipped every net he cast for her, and soon, she’d had him on the defensive. He’d given up his fantasies of killing her. He’d merely wanted her dead, gone, out of his bloody way. He’d turned to a plan that couldn’t fail. The Order of Terroka. They had failed.

Buffy _was_ the thing all Slayers thought they were, the thing monsters had nightmares about. She had made his existence a misery of pain, humiliation and fear, not the least by sending Angel back into it. Now Angel’s obsession with Buffy and Dru’s devotion to her sire had robbed Spike of his reason for being. Sooner or later, he would kill her. He’d bargain with Angel or the humans or God himself to get it done. If he had to pull the Earth down by its foundations to do it, so much the better.


	2. From A Long Line Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Willow's magical romance with Amy spins out of control and she turns to Oz for comfort, there are indications that she may have very dark roots. And she's not the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part I: Motherless Child

“God!” said Buffy, still having trouble believing what Giles had told her. “He actually drove down here all the way from L.A.?”

“Apparently,” Giles acknowledged.

“Aunt Darlene is going to have a goat,” Buffy declared.

“He does have a license, doesn’t he?” Giles asked, a little worriedly.

Buffy Shrugged. “As far as I know. What do you think he’s going to tell Mom?”

Giles rubbed his temples. “You know him better than I,” he pointed out. “What do you think?”

“I think we should talk to Mom before he gets back to L.A.” Buffy admitted. The phone rang. “Or he could have stopped and called her from a payphone,” Buffy noted applying Murphy’s Law.

But it was not Joyce calling. “Hello?” Giles said.

“Hello yourself,” said Snyder hostilely. Not even bothering to pretend to be a professional. “There’s an emergency faculty meeting at one o’clock in my conference room. Attendance is mandatory.”

“Faculty meeting? On a Saturday?” Giles asked worriedly.

Buffy pricked up her ears. Was this something to do with them?

“Did you have something more important to do?”asked Snyder sourly.

“What? No,” Giles assured him, “nothing whatsoever. I thought I might go to the grocery store but... What’s this about? The shooting?”

“I... don’t have time to get into it,” Snyder hedged. “Just be there.” With that he hung up.

“Trouble?” Buffy asked.

“I’m not sure,” Giles said. “A faculty meeting on a Saturday, on one hour’s notice... Historically, that’s not usually good news.”

“You’re not... getting fired are you, right now I mean?”

Giles laughed. “No, that would be an emergency School Board meeting, or a private meeting with Snyder in his office. I expect this is something Hellmouth related.”

“Speaking of,” said Buffy, “maybe I should check in with the guys, let them know the ghost thing is handled.”

“Take your time,” Giles advised. “These meetings usually run on something terrible, and I actually do have to go to the grocery store afterward.”

“No argument there,” Buffy agreed. “Never mind voting, most of what left in your fridge is coming up on mandatory retirement age.”

“What does your mother like for dinner?” he asked.

Buffy gave him a look. “That’s your plan?” she asked, “invite her over for dinner?”

“It’s a polite gesture,” he argued. “And clearly we need to sit down and talk things out.”

“Yeah well, don’t be surprised if ‘talking things out’ turns into shouting and throwing things. But you’re right; I don’t see much of a choice. I’m sure Sherlock Holmes can’t wait to tell her about two tea cups... and the two dead girls in Seattle. God! Why can’t he just play poker and watch Wheel-of-Fortune like a normal old person?”

“Because he is your ancestor,” Giles pointed out with a sigh. “They’re a surprisingly colorful lot actually,” he added contemplatively.

Buffy cocked her head at him quizzically. “What do you know about my ancestors?” she asked.

“More than you do probably,” Giles informed her matter-of-factly. “It’s basic Slayer research. We got a late start on yours, but we’ve built up a pretty clear picture by now.”

Again with the stalking, in an entirely different and yet still totally creepy way. Weren’t there men out there somewhere who would _ask_ a girl if they wanted to know something about her? Not in Buffy’s life. She was the Chosen One, the to-be-spied-on-and-obsessed-over-one. There was a powerful organization ‘older than the Roman Catholic Church’ that wanted to know everything about her and probably did. It was like fining out you were one of those kids who keep getting reincarnated in Thailand or some place. After two years it was still hard to wrap her brain around. She didn’t feel that important.

“Why do they even care who my ancestors—my physical ancestors—are?” Buffy asked. “I mean the Slayer line is a _mystical_ heritage deal. It doesn’t run in families does it?”

“Well no,” Giles confirmed. “Two Slayers are no more likely to be related than any two random human beings. In fact, our statistical analysis says less, I have no idea why. But it doesn’t matter. You are who you are quite apart from and in addition to being the Slayer, and that determines who you are as a Slayer as well. As Watchers you see, knowledge is the ultimate source of our power. Therefore we like to know everything about the Slayer that we can, as soon as we can. To tell you the truth, I don’t think some of them will ever forgive you for... sneaking up on us.”

“And all this time I was feeling like the sneaked-up-on,” Buffy laughed.

Giles’ brow furrowed and for a moment his gaze seemed... darker somehow. “Maybe you’re right about that,” he mumbled.

“Well but, I guess I can see their side of it,” Buffy ruminated, feeling suddenly a little glum herself. “I mean here they are upholding all these sacred mystical traditions going back thousands of years and some unknown cheerleader, shallow princess person comes out of nowhere and walks away with the whole thing.”

Giles seemed troubled. “That’s not quite... You don’t really _believe_ that about yourself, do you?”

Buffy shrugged. “You didn’t know me before,” she said. “Trust me you didn’t miss much.”

Giles thought back to his first impression of Buffy. It was actually pretty close to the description she’d just given. He’d been wrong. He hoped his... disapproval hadn’t had an impact on her self-perception. He pulled her into his embrace and kissed her forehead. “There have been thousands of Slayers,” he said, and “tens of thousands of Watchers, but there is only one Buffy Summers.”

 ***

Xander sat down on a large headstone contemplating a smaller marker across the aisle. There was an inscription in the stone: KEVIN BARKER Sept. 10,1979-June 5, 1997.But he was thinking of a stone that had never been carved: Jesse Davis, Feb. 1, 1981- Jan. 27, 1997. He thought of a dozen other stones, carved and uncarved; a dozen other bodies buried, dusted or walking around. He thought about death itself and early, unnatural death in particular. You knew someone, you got invested in them, cared about them; and they were there for you until one day they weren’t. And that was just that, no appeals no second chances. No matter if they were one week from Graduation or five days away from a driver’s license. No matter if they were crazy in love or untouched by human hands. Sixteen years, eighteen years, it wasn’t long enough; it wasn’t right.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Cordelia asked, suddenly standing beside him.

Xander sighed. “Thinking about things that are written in stone,” he said.

“Oh,” said Cordelia bitterly. Xander had the feeling she had taken that the wrong way.

“The past,” he tried to clarify, “is the past. I don’t care about that. Or, I mean, I _care_ , but I don’t blame you for... anything. That was then; this is now. And I don’t want to miss now, ‘cause it’ll be then soon enough, too soon. Cordelia, I love you. I love who you are, exactly who you are, including everything you’ve ever done or said or lived through and I swear to God I would have called you back in the next hour or two to tell you that.”

She smiled. “Apology accepted.”

“Thanks,” Xander said feeling like there was an irony to all this that he couldn’t quit put his finger on.

“Buffy called,” Cordelia informed him. “She wants us all to meet at her house for a big ghosts and monsters update. I wasn’t going to go, but I guess I will if you will.”

“We have to go,” Xander told her “we’re the judges for the final round of the creepiest couple in school contest.”

“Who’s winning?” she asked.

“Killer ghosts by a nose,” he said.

“Yeah well,” Cordelia replied, “Buffy should still get the lifetime achievement award.”

“And Willard and Amy can have ‘most original creeps given,’” Xander agreed cheerfully.

“They should look to normal, healthy relationships like ours,” Cordelia teased, gesturing at their surroundings, “to provide a positive example.”

But when they arrived at Buffy’s house, the level of outright creepiness was no joke. Amy was there with Willard almost literally in tow. He clung to her. When she sat down in a chair at the dining room table, he stood next to it, unable to be separated from her by half a foot to take his own seat. He asked her ten times if she wanted a glass of water, something to eat, a pillow, a neck rub, a kiss. She didn’t want anything. “Are you sure, Baby, anything at all?” Exchanging a significant glance, Xander and Cordelia sat down at the table and gave Buffy their attention.

“Where’s Giles?”Amy asked meanly, “I _thought_ we were going to get an update.”

She was so smug, Buffy was almost tempted to give her one, but that was not the plan, and things being as they were, she didn’t really trust Willow (or Willard) with the information either. “He’s... busy,” she hedged, letting their relationship status read as ambiguous, slipping her ring off inside the pocket of her jeans. “But I have all the info. Ghosts are history. We played through the whole shooting scene with Drusilla as the corpse, actually, so they got to work it all out.” Buffy tried to stuff down all of her emotions over Angel’s final passing. They didn’t need to hear about that right now.

“Drusilla?” Willard asked skeptically.

Buffy was just glad to see him focus on anything besides Amy for a fraction of a second.

“Yeah,” she said, “your locator spell was dead on. They are definitely gathering at the Hellmouth, no idea how many. It could just be the three of them. Or two, now. We... killed Drusilla.” It was close to the truth and avoided complications.

“Oh God,” said Cordelia, “Won’t that just piss them off more?”

“Yeah,” Xander scoffed, “’cause they’ve shown so much restraint up to now.”

“If they’re pissed, they’re pissed,” said Buffy with conviction. “I wanted to hurt them and I have. Whatever they hit back with, we’ll deal. I’m tired of playing around.”

“But we haven’t been ‘playing around’” Amy pointed out. “You killed nineteen from the map we gave you, now twenty with Drusilla, and drove the rest underground, and that’s just in the last 48 hours. It’s not just Spike and Angel who’ll be coming for us.”

“She’s right,” Cordelia agreed worriedly, “I bet that old Church looks like Vamp Central Station.”

Buffy remembered something she’d seen but hadn’t spared any thought for last night. “Snyder knows!”she said, shocked, “ _that’s_ what the faculty meeting is about!”

“Snyder knows something?” Xander asked skeptically, “ _besides_ advanced intimidation tactics and everyone’s attendance record for the past two years?”

“Oh my God,” said Buffy, banging herself in the forehead, “how stupid am I not to know that nobody could be that stupid?”

“What makes you think he knows?” asked Willard skeptically.

“What faculty meeting?”asked Amy, narrowing her eyes.

“They’re digging a trench all the way around the school,” Buffy explained, ignoring Amy. “Obviously, they want to get some sunlight down into the basement, stop the vamps from getting in during the day anyway.”

“Which means the new closing time’s probably not about the ghosts at all,” Cordelia realized out loud, “Oh God, we’re never going to get our practice time back, and all our routines are going to go straight to crap!”

“Oh God(!) Oh God(!)” said Amy, managing a tone that was both flat and acidic, “How will the world continue to turn without the holy sacrament of cheerleading practice? The gods will turn off the Sun.”

Cordelia’s eyes blazed. Xander tried unsuccessfully to hide his laughter behind his hand. He got elbowed in the ribs for his trouble. “Just because you suck at something,” Cordelia countered, “doesn’t mean those of us who have talent aren’t supposed to care about it. Cheerleading is the glue that—”

Amy stood up and leaned across the table towards Cordelia, “I could go a hundred goddamned years without hearing another motherfucking word about Cheerleading if it’s all the same to you,” she said bitterly, threateningly.

Cordelia stood and leaned on the table herself, eye to eye with Amy. “Oh yeah,” she said nastily, “I forgot. We’re all supposed to care about your issues even though you could give a crap what happens to any of us. It works like that.”

“Hey!” said Willard, rushing to his girlfriend’s defense, “You can’t talk to her that way! You don’t know what she’s been through!”

“What?” Cordelia challenged, “Being trapped in a totally alien body where you only live to serve the will of the creepifying witch who stole your identity and took over your life? I’m starting to get a picture of what that looks like, actually. I mean, am I the _only_ one seeing this?”

“No,” Xander agreed firmly, standing up next to her so that the two couples were staring each other down across the table. “Wil. _Willow_ , this is a love spell. She’s _making_ you stay with her.”

“Am not!” Amy protested.

“She’s not!” Willard shouted angrily. “Amy is the Goddess that makes the Sun shine in my life! This,” he said, gesturing to his body as a whole, “is a spell. _This_ ,” he contrasted, banging his left fist against his chest, “is my heart!”

Buffy’s eyes went suddenly wide. She gazed in horror on Amy’s smug, mean little face. Then horror gave way to anger. It was all she could do to keep from leaping across the table and straight at Amy’s throat. She had never felt this way about another human person in her life. She truly hated her. Amy was a monster. Complete with supernatural power a tempting little voice pointed out. As far as the forces of darkness went, she more or less qualified. She was also a sixteen-year-old girl. “Take it off!” Buffy demanded, keeping a tenuous hold on her temper.

“Willard is only under one spell of mine,” said Amy coolly, “and that’s the way he wants it.” She finally gave him the tiny kiss he’s been pleading for since they’d first walked in. “Isn’t that right, Baby?”

“Oh yes!” said Willard, weak kneed, dizzy with devotion.

“Oh no,” said Buffy firmly.

“Oh, _hell_ no!” Xander agreed.

“Project much?” Amy scoffed at Xander. “I mean,” she reminded Cordelia, “he was going to do it to you. What was it you said to me, Xander?”

“Cor—no, I was just—I was hurt and—”

“Oh yeah, I remember, ‘I intend revenge, pure as the driven snow.’”

“Revenge?” Cordelia repeated, hurt, confused.

“Remind me again what the plan was?” Amy needled, “Were you going to reject her and ‘put her through hell’ right away or were you going to rape her first?”

“Either way,” Buffy pointed out angrily, remembering the spectacle she’d made of herself in response to that spell, “that whole thing does not reflect well on you. And you’re not making any friends here.”

“The spell wasn’t...” Cordelia was still struggling with what she was hearing, “you didn’t want to be with me?”

“Xander made her do it!” Willard pointed out. “He threatened her!” He started coming around the table towards Xander, “When I think—”his voice was hard, brittle, “I wanted— I ought to kill you right now!” Xander’s denials were conspicuous by their absence. Cordelia sat down in her chair, deflated, replaying and reinterpreting events in her mind. She had been so impressed with the desperate, scary lengths Xander had been willing to go to win her heart. She had taken it as a measure of his devotion. If that had never really been the case... He had said he loved her since, but it was hard to know what to believe.

Xander and Willard were facing off now, seconds from coming to blows as Xander tried to get around Willard to challenge Amy. Amy was shouting and sneering, taunting Xander, egging Willard on. Action was needed. Buffy picked up a chair and brought it crashing down on the dining table, smashing the chair to bits and sending the neatly halved table crashing to the floor. Everyone was forced to move in different directions, towards the corners of the room to escape the wooden shrapnel.

Buffy found herself facing Amy across the wreckage of the dining table. Rage burned in Amy’s eyes. “He’s mine!” She declared, “You’re no better than me! Any of you! You can’t take him! I don’t have anything else!”

“Amy,” said Buffy firmly, “This is wrong. This is crazy. It has to stop!”

“Oh I’ll give you crazy!” Amy shouted. “Goddess Hecate!” she implored at the top of her lungs. It wasn’t chanting, she was crying out for assistance as if to someone in the next room. “Work thy will! Before thee let the unclean thing crawl!” A shimmering whirlwind of unearthly power hurtled towards Buffy’s face. She had a split second to react. She ducked under it, no real plan other than ‘dodge.’ About half way down, she remembered the mirrored back splash and wondered...

The answer came swiftly. Amy’s empty clothes collapsed. Willard collapsed as well, crying out in pain, or possibly ecstasy. Willow caught the large, gray-brown rat that came scurrying to her for protection and stood, dazed, holding it to her chest. In Willard’s oversized clothes, she looked like a lost little child clutching a cherished stuffed animal for comfort. Tears started streaming down her face. “How could you do that to me?” she mumbled against Amy’s tiny uncomprehending ear, “How could you?”

The look on Cordelia’s face when Xander tried to help her to her feet said the same thing. “Leave me alone, Xander!” she snapped after his second or third oblivious attempt to render aid. She stood with as much dignity as she could manage and brushed imaginary debris from her clothes. “I’m getting out of here!”she announced. Xander followed her from the room, shouting for her to wait.

Buffy looked at Willow. Willow looked miserable. “Do you need anything?” Buffy asked, helping her to an intact chair. Amy squeaked angrily. Willow shook her head. Buffy felt sad and worried for Willow, but not the least bit sorry that Amy was a rat. It would probably take a while to figure out how to change her back. She hoped it would be enough to teach her a lesson.

They heard the sound of Cordelia’s tires squealing as she sped away. Xander stormed back into the room. “Willow,” he said, anguished, enraged, “hand me that rat and a hammer.”

Willow gave him a worried, incredulous look. Buffy stepped between them. “Xand,” she said, soothingly, “You can’t. She’s still Amy.”

“Well, that’s sort of the point,” he rejoined hotly. “I mean what are we going to do? Change her back? Let her keep playing us and ruining our lives? What, just so we can say we’re the good guys?”

“It’s not right,” said Buffy firmly. “This... none of it is entirely Amy’s fault.”

“She’s right,” Willow agreed. “That spell was your idea. And for the record, it felt exactly the same as the one Amy used on me. How do you expect Cordelia to feel?”

“But she knew!” Xander pointed out. “I told her that day we tried to put that spell on her. She was all impressed.”

“Because she thought you wanted her that badly,” Buffy pointed out. “That’s not the same as hurting her on purpose.”

“But that’s not—” Xander was stunned into silence. It had been like that. Exactly like that. He heard again Buffy’s bitter words this time on Cordelia’s lips, ‘So this was all a game? You make me feel this way and then you reject me? What am I, a toy?’And if Cordelia _had_ come crawling back to him, begging him to undress her? The possibilities were too horrible to contemplate.

Of course, he _had_ been grieving. He _had_ been in love. Cordelia _had_ broken his heart. Just about like Willow had broken Amy’s he guessed, unable to reconcile why it felt like an excuse in one case and not the other. His heart felt pretty broken now. ‘I don’t have anything else,’ Amy had said. What did he have without Cordelia? Alright, he had two good friends and a kick ass comic book collection, but still... life would pretty much suck without her.

Xander backed off a little further from the girls, who he realized were still primed for the possibility of violence. He held his palms up in the age old gesture of surrender. “You’re right,” he said, “I’m sorry... I just... I have to get her back.”

“You might want to give her a few hours to calm down,” Buffy advised.

“But not too long,” Willow chimed in, “after a certain amount of time, she’ll start to wonder if you care that she’s upset.” Willow’s own words stabbed her in the heart. How long ago had Oz left that desperate message? Eighteen hours? Twenty? She felt a little like crushing Amy’s tiny rat skull with a hammer herself. But, as with Xander, it was as much her own fault as Amy’s. It had all started consensually enough: two kids playing with matches.

Two kids without parental supervision.

“Guys,” Willow said nervously, “there’s something I have to show you.”

“What?” said Buffy, utterly confused, “like what?”

“At my house,” said Willow, miserably, “both of you come please? I don’t want to go by myself in case... just come with me okay.” They did. The short drive was a tense, silent one. Buffy sat holding Amy in a shoe box with holes poked in the top. She was reminded again of the uneasy feeling she’d had when Willow had told her that her mother was ‘asleep.’ She really, really hoped they weren’t being led to her body. If so, she couldn’t quite imagine what she would have to do about it, but it wouldn’t be anything good. Xander wondered what was with all the mystery. Things had gotten intense back there. Anything worth taking a sudden break for had to be huge. It was something easier to see than to describe. Something magic? Something to help Amy or something to fight vampires? Vampires he hoped. He guessed they couldn’t really kill Amy, but she _was_ a rat as far as he was concerned, and she could stay that way.

***

Giles tried calling Buffy, Xander, Willow and Cordelia as soon as he got home from the faculty meeting. None of them were home. He hadn’t dared to leave a message on any of their machines except Buffy’s. There was no telling what their parents would have made of it. Judging by the cold shoulders and snide comments he’d endured for the past two hours, Principal Snyder was the only remaining person at Sunnydale High who believed in his innocence. A few colleagues had even been so kind as to point out that they were his library books that had nearly been set ablaze and that his ‘favorite student’ was a known arsonist. No one could quite say what that had to do with thirty-six students and four of their escorts going missing in one night, but that didn’t stop them from implying a connection. Mr. Whitmore’s very witty remark that perhaps there were some adults who could benefit from a refresher in his subject matter had all but brought down the house. Honestly, sometimes Giles wondered who were the juveniles, the students or the teachers, but then, he supposed someone whose life’s work consisted of combating millions of years of evolution with logic and fresh eggs didn’t get many opportunities to be smug.

The meeting had been disturbing for other reasons. Of course, it was immediately clear to Giles that the missing kids had been killed by vampires. More surprisingly, though it was never overtly stated, it seemed to be clear to Snyder as well, and to a great many others. To those who had ears to hear and eyes to see, all of the precautions and policy changes discussed seemed to be vampire related one way or another: closing at four o’clock; basement doors to remain locked at all times; no wearing of gloves, hats or sunglasses on campus; a regular schedule of inspection for all windowless places. They had also been told, as if one followed logically from the other, that in addition to the shootings they knew about, Nurse Greenly, Coach Marin and a pair of students had been killed on campus earlier in the week and as a result, the pool complex would be closed for the semester. He didn’t know what to make of the fact that almost none of his colleagues seemed to find any of this the least bit odd. Miss Tishler had wittered on through the whole meeting about how none of it made any sense, but instead of chorusing along, the other teachers had unfailingly ignored her. Once he had more or less offered to suggest that she had a valid point about something, but it had been quickly made clear to him that she didn’t require _his_ assistance. By the end of the meeting, he had been wondering not whether everyone else knew that Sunnydale was a center of evil and havoc in the universe but whether everyone else knew that everyone else knew.

He’d actually gotten bold enough near the end of the meeting to suggest that perhaps there had been some sort of provocation from one or more members of the student body causing the ‘killers’ to react. His purpose had been to try to guide discussion towards the possibility of a more active defensive posture for the school on the theory that hostilities were only beginning. It had been taken as an attempt to blame the victims, which was what happened to suggestions from undesirable aliens he supposed. By the end of it all, he wouldn’t have been surprised in the least to have been asked for an alibi for the night in question. Now that would have been an interesting topic for group discussion he thought with grim amusement.

He wondered if Buffy and her friends had gone to the mall or some such place, it being a Saturday afternoon. Thus far, the school, apparently with the help of the local authorities, had managed to keep the missing kids off the news and out of the papers, so in all likelihood they knew nothing about it. He wondered how such miraculous press control was possible. Forty victims, all between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, all on their way to or from the same school dance. It was a sensationalist reporter’s dream come true. Was it possible that this town was permeated not by an epidemic of denial and rationalization but by a conspiracy of silence?

Giles resisted the urge to physically look for his young associates. They could be anywhere. In all likelihood, he’d just be wasting his time. He also didn’t especially want to be seen checking out all the places where a group of eleventh graders might go. Buffy would get his message and call. Then they could work on a strategy together. He just had to be patient.

In the meantime, there was of course the grocery shopping to be gotten done, but first he tried something else he needed to get done if possible. When the phone rang the fourth time, he had real hope that she wouldn’t answer. After all, she was traveling on business. She was probably out doing some, not hanging around her hotel. But half way through the fifth ring, Joyce Summers said, “Hello?”

“Hello, Joyce?” Giles said, resisting the urge to call her, ‘Mrs. Summers’. Under the circumstances, he felt presumptuous calling her by her first name, but, he reminded himself, she was an American. He didn’t want to make her feel regarded as old or rudely held at a distance.

“Mr. Giles,” she replied coolly. She did not sound terribly surprised to be getting a call from him. She didn’t sound terribly pleased either.

“I believe,” he said levelly, “that there are certain things we need to discuss.”

Joyce sniffed contemptuously, “And what might those be?” she asked.

“Your grandfather came by to see me,” he said, approaching the subject obliquely.

“He did what!?!” Joyce sounded like she might choke.

“I gather you’d asked him to make... subtle inquiries into my background?” Giles went on, unable to avoid being slightly amused.

She laughed ruefully. “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” she said.

“No, I expect not,” Giles acknowledged. “Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first he’d heard of me.”

“What do you mean?” Joyce asked warily.

“I’ve been interviewed in more than my share of homicide investigations,” Giles admitted, “even before moving to the per capita murder capitol of California.”

“Hazard of the job I suppose,” said Joyce bitterly.

“Well... yes,” he admitted uncomfortably. He would not have chosen this moment, this conversation to discuss the risks involved in Slaying.

“To hear Buffy tell it,” Joyce went on, “it’s as safe as a Sunday stroll. I think we both know better than that though, don’t we, Mr. Giles?”

“Yes,” he admitted, “as does Buffy. I’m sure she just doesn’t want you to worry.”

Joyce sniffed again somewhere between laughter and tears, “Why would I worry? Just because my only daughter is fighting monsters that could tear her apart and I never know from one minute to the next if she’s dead or alive?”

“Buffy knows what she’s doing,” Giles tried to assure her. “I’ve never worked with anyone so talented in all my life.” He hadn’t meant for his voice to glow with pride when he said that, but it had.

“She told me today that you’re someone she can trust, someone she can count on, to help keep her safe,” Joyce said pointedly. “Is that true?”

“I hope so,” Giles said with as much conviction as he could muster. “God knows... I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her. I’m not sure I could stand it.”

“There’s no way that Angel could possibly be the father of Buffy’s baby, is there?” Joyce challenged. A non-sequitur, apropos of everything.

“Life,” he acknowledged gravely, “comes from living things.”

“From you, you mean,” said Joyce flatly.

“I’d have to be a great fool to admit such a thing directly,” he pointed out calmly.

“Or a coward to deny it,” said Joyce bitterly.

“That’s as may be,” he deflected, “but it gets us no nearer a resolution of the real issue.”

“And what, in your oh-so-humble opinion is the _real_ issue, _Mr._ Giles?” Joyce asked scornfully.

“Buffy’s future,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What future?” Joyce scoffed. “‘Single teen mom dies in mysterious barbeque fork accident?’ that future?”

“Actually,” he said, ignoring the uncomfortably accurate assessment of a Slayer’s prospects for a long and healthy life, “I’ve asked Buffy to be my wife, and she’s agreed.”

“Oh dear lord,” Joyce gasped, horrified.

“Naturally, this isn’t how we wanted you to learn this news,” he half apologized, “but Buffy and I are very much in love, and—”

“Don’t you talk to me about _love_!” Joyce retorted bitterly. “ _I’m_ not a child. If you think this is the way to pay for what you’ve done, you’re living in the wrong century.”

“Please,” he laughed dryly, “This isn’t the middle ages. If I were merely trying to... make amends we’d be talking through Hal, about a very different set of arrangements. I love Buffy. I want to spend my life with her.”

“Did you come to that conclusion before or after she told you she was pregnant?” Joyce wanted to know.

Giles thought about the question and tried to answer honestly. “I knew I was in love with her before that,” he said. “I doubt if the subject of marriage, as such, would have come up for another couple of years if ever. I doubt if she’d have been interested to be honest.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this information,” said Joyce dejectedly, “other than be angry. I could ruin you, but she’d only hate me for it. It’s too late. You’ve already taken her away from me.” She was very near tears now.

“I don’t really think that’s the way to look at it,” he argued gently.

“It’ll be a cold day in Hell when I need _you_ to tell me the right way to look at something!” Joyce shot back angrily. “Do you think Buffy would give you a second look if you were a stranger passing her on the street? You’ve been this huge influence on her, instructing her, guiding her, all of it behind my back! That’s what you’re trading on, to get into my little girl’s pants, whatever you tell yourself, whatever you tell Buffy!”

“I can see why you would think that,” Giles admitted. “I doubt very much if I’m going to convince you otherwise today. I hope we can sit down and discuss the situation, the three of us, or four if you want to include Buffy’s father, when you get back from Sacramento.”

Joyce laughed bitterly, “Hank would have you locked up so fast your head would spin. I’m... not ready to do anything that drastic... yet. I’ll be home Monday night, but I’m not sure what there is to discuss. I’m not fool enough to forbid Buffy to see you, but I also know you can’t marry her without my permission, and if you think I’m going to hand her over to you one second sooner than her eighteenth birthday, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Well, as I said,” he reiterated calmly, “the three of us can discuss it when you get home.”

“Well there’s something to look forward to,” said Joyce caustically.

“Is there anything...” Giles hardly knew what he’d meant to ask, ‘anything I can do to make you not hate me for impregnating your teenage daughter and putting her in mortal danger?’ “anything you’d particularly like for dinner Monday night?”

This question was met with the disdainful silence that it deserved. After a long moment Joyce said, “Buffy has a court ordered six p.m. curfew. I expect her to be at home—by which I mean _my_ home—from six p.m. to six a.m. both tonight and tomorrow and I expect you not to be. I will see you at my home at seven o’clock on Monday, and I suggest you eat before you come because I’m not cooking for you and I’m not eating with you. What we are going to do is get a few things straight. Do you understand me?”

“Indeed I do,” Mr. Giles assured her.

“No,” she said bitterly, “You don’t, but in about sixteen years you will.”

For the last few seconds, there had been a persistent low beeping on the line. “You’d better answer that,” Joyce said tiredly, “It’s probably Buffy.”

It was. “Giles!” she said, “Thank God you’re there. Come to Willow’s right now. It’s an emergency.” She was not exaggerating.

“Tell me again how this happened, exactly?” Giles inquired tensely, ten minutes later, laying his glasses on the Rosenberg’s kitchen table and rubbing his temples.

Willow was holding Amy in her lap, stroking her fur, trying to calm her down without actually being calm herself, which mostly worked out to getting bit on the hands a lot. “Well,” she laughed nervously, “we were arguing about... stuff, the four of us and Cordelia. And Buffy got into it with Amy and... Willow’s voice, which had been becoming almost as rapid and squeaky as Amy’s broke off in a whine of distressed disbelief.

“She started up the rat spell on me,” Buffy concluded.“I ducked, down and the spell hit the mirror. I didn’t plan it that way, it just happened. But it’s her spell, and we don’t know how to break it.”

“Or why to break it,” Xander added, not actually joking.

“And your mother?” Giles demanded, ignoring Xander and addressing Willow. “How did she come to be in the... _state_ that she’s in?”

“Needles Eye Sleeping Spell,” said Willow bitterly, “Amy said it was _nothing_. She did it all the time.”

Giles sniffed. “Of course. I should have guessed. Exactly what one might expect from the daughter of Katherine Madison. Probably incapable of seeing the inconsistency.”

“Completely,” Willow confirmed morosely.

“My God,” Giles said, “I had no idea things between you and your mother had gotten this bad.”

“Um,” said Buffy raising her hand, “still needing back story here.”

“Does it involve a camel?” Xander asked. Giles gave him a withering look.

“To break the spell,” said Willow bleakly, “I have to love her. If I could do that, I wouldn’t have done it in the first place.”

“That what most people mean by love,” Giles agreed.

Willow gave him a look. “Speaking of love,” She said, mildly accusingly, “I noticed you’re not fighting with Buffy anymore. What _are_ you guys doing?”

Giles resisted the impulse to say, ‘minding our own business.’ “Getting married,” Buffy said laconically. Breaking into a wide smile, she held up her left hand.

“What?!” Xander croaked. For once he didn’t have a witty remark to make. He looked like he might actually stop breathing.

“Oh that’s...still really weird, actually,” Willow said, though her voice sounded happy-excited, “But congratulations! And—oh—I would hug you, but I have to hold on to Amy.” Buffy hugged Willow instead. Amy squeaked in protest. “She’s just jealous,” Willow joked nervously.

“Yeah well, she doesn’t have to ask my mom for permission,” said Buffy sardonically.

“That’s going to be a fun and rewarding experience(!)” Xander agreed looking at Giles with sadistic amusement. “Of course that’s what you get for doin’—”

Giles cleared his throat. “Yes, well, much as I’m enjoying this frank and _detailed_ discussion of my private life, hadn’t we better get back to the matter at hand? We do still have to determine if there is a way to... undo to results of Willow and Amy’s... experimentation with the dark arts.”

“Giles,” Buffy mock implored him, “try to contain yourself! I know we don’t get engaged every day but it embarrasses me when you gush like this in public.”

“Yes, well,” he replied, smiling apologetically, “you are marrying an Englishman you know.”

“I know,” said Buffy with cheerful resignation.

“Yeah,” said Xander “and you know what they say about Englishmen... no wait, that’s everybody else in the entire world.” Buffy just smiled and shrugged as if to say, ‘shows how much you know.’ Giles couldn’t resist raising one very smug eyebrow as he took Buffy’s hand under the table. They sat there, grinning blissfully at one another.“Sooooooo,” said Xander, “should we work on the rat problem first or try to wake up sleeping Mommy?”

“Actually,” said Giles suddenly feeling markedly less pleased, “We have bigger problems to worry about.”

***

Edwards was restless, he wished the sun would set so he could get out of this house of a hostile God. He sat with his back to the closed door of the cloakroom where Zanya sat watching over Angel and the girl like a worried mother. He felt unwelcome there, like a father in an eighteenth century nursery. He had to laugh at himself. He guessed it made almost as much sense to be jealous now as then. He guessed after three hundred years he ought to be over feeling like a half weaned pup shoved off the breast to make room for the next litter.

He watched with casual interest as several brawny minions carefully dismembered the bloodless bodies of a dozen virgins and wrapped the pieces in brown paper tied with string. It had been Spike’s idea, something he’d read in a book. The plan was to give the authorities a ‘rational’ explanation for the mass disappearances, something to calm the towns people and make them feel safe coming out at night. After all, a serial killer was a well know, almost common place, human phenomenon. He could be caught, jailed, tried and executed. It was a thing that could happen anywhere, not a reason to leave town.

It was a peace offering. They needed a truce with the town fathers if they were going to be allowed to focus on the Slayer and to have a chance to complete the ritual. According to what Cranston’s boys had told the guys over at Willy’s the villagers were one more missing kid away from sharpening their pitchforks. The word was already spreading around town to such an extent that by tomorrow they would have to print something in the paper just to keep up appearances. People were whispering about ‘unnatural’ events. Some were even using the ‘v word.’ There would be no hunt tonight. Things needed to cool down.

They had Willy ordering in butcher’s blood by the case and as much of the good stuff as they could afford to tide them over and get the risers up to full steam. Still, the army was getting agitated. They were ready to kill some folks. He and Spike had discussed turning them loose on the Slayer, but, even assuming they succeeded, she would definitely qualify as ‘one more missing kid.’ They would also start to question the purpose and value of the ritual. There was too much chance of doing more harm than good. They needed to keep things status quo until the new moon rose.

They were as ready as they could be for the Healing of the Dark Moon this far in advance. Edwards had double and triple checked the incantations. They needed at least two, probably three more girls to top off the sacrificial pool, but they had to be killed on the night of the ritual itself so that some of the blood would be fresh. Pitchforks aside, capturing them now would only give them time to be rescued. There was nothing left to do but wait.

Edwards noticed another body twitching, getting ready to rise. A girl this time, dark and lovely. He recognized her as one of several he had actually been allowed to sire. Spike had tried to do as many as he could himself, but no one has enough blood to feed twenty-eight spawn in one night. Edwards had been only too happy to help with this one. She reminded him more than a little of his oldest daughter, left behind in Virginia oh so long ago. He wondered idly if she might be a descendent of his former self, not that it really mattered. Maybe he would take her for a moonlight drive, some place with a little distance, Elmwood or maybe Chula Vista, someplace where the discovery of one more missing person or mangled body wouldn’t automatically make the authorities think vampires.

***

The phone rang at 6:05. Joyce took a deep breath and answered it. After the ten rounds of two on one ‘conversation’ she’d just had with her grandfather and her sister, she was in no mood to go another round with Buffy, but she could hardly fault her for checking in after the talk they’d had this morning. “Hello,” she said tiredly, tensely. “How’s um, how’s everything there?”

“Peachy, Mom,” said Buffy with mild derision. “I’m home sitting on my ass while vampires are mass murdering our friends and neighbors. It’s like a vacation.”

“I _know_ where you spent last night,” Joyce pointed out.

“Yeah,” Buffy said, dialing way back on the attitude, “Giles told me he talked to you.”

“I guess the two of you had a good laugh at my expense,” said Joyce bitterly.

“Of course not,” Buffy said, “we didn’t mean for this to happen. It just did.”

“Things like this don’t just ‘happen,’ Buffy, people do them,” Joyce countered hotly. “This is the second time in the last three weeks that I’ve found out you were having sex with... an individual a lot more than twice your age and lying to me about it. You actually let me believe that you were pregnant by a demon rather than having the simple decency to take responsibility for your actions! Now you expect me to sign my name to a legal document saying you’re mature enough to get married!?! To say that that man has to legal right to... to...”

“He’s a good man,” Buffy interjected earnestly, “I know there’s no way on Earth that you could possibly know that about him, but he is, and we love each other, and everything is going to be okay if you just let it be okay.”

“And what happens when _he_ changes, Buffy? When he turns out not to be the person you thought you fell in love with four minutes after the last person you thought you fell in love with?”

“He won’t,” said Buffy stubbornly. “I know him.”

“So well that you still call him by his last name,” Joyce pointed out.

“Mom,” Buffy rejoined, “his first name is ‘Rupert,’ he calls himself by his last name.”

“What’s his middle name?” Joyce asked. “Who are his parents? Siblings? Where was he born? Does he have a criminal record? How are his finances? What kind of problems does he have with his immigration status that he needs to have his lawyer’s home phone number scrawled on the back of that card he gave you? How long is he planning to stay in this country? What’s his religion? What are his politics?”

“Wow,” said Buffy striving for a light tone, “that’s a lot of questions.”

“Pick one,” Joyce challenged.

“He’s an only child,” Buffy said.

“Whell,” said Joyce scornfully, “it’s like you’ve known him your whole life!”

“I know he studied history at Oxford,” Buffy volunteered, “and his father was a Watcher, and _his_ mother was a Watcher.”

“What are their names?” Joyce persisted.

“I’m guessing Giles?” Buffy offered.

“Are they living or dead?” Joyce pressed.

“Dead,” said Buffy automatically, though she had to admit to herself that he had never actually said so. Toying with the ring on her finger, she tried to remember one single thing Giles had ever said about his parents, or his grandmother for that matter, other than their tradition of only children, the transmission of his destiny and of that diamond. She came up empty handed. In fact, she could probably _still_ count on one hand the number of times he had mentioned anything from his life before Sunnydale. None of it had been very pleasant. “Like I said this morning,” she said finally, “Giles is Giles. If he says he loves me, he loves me. And I love him, by the way. I don’t need to know his middle name to know that.”

***

Xander sat for a long time at the foot of Sheila’s bed. Willow was in her room, pretending to be asleep. He tried to remember a time when they had been close, an era or an incident that he could point to and say, ‘see, there was love there once, you just have to dig down and find it again.’ The trouble was he didn’t really remember anything like that. Sheila did mom things. She helped with homework and made snacks and checked for fever with the back of her hand. But there was always a sort of a sense that she was phoning it in. Whenever Willow told her Xander was staying for dinner, she’d look up from whatever she was reading and say, “That’s nice dear.”In the third grade, when Willow had told her she’d won the elementary division of the National Science Fair and she was going to Washington to meet the President, Sheila had looked up from the latest APA Journal and said, “That’s nice dear.” He hadn’t thought of it as having anything to do with love or the lack of same. That was just Sheila being Sheila.

He could remember a time or two when Willow had seemed frustrated or disappointed for a second or two by Sheila’s lack of enthusiasm. But then she would just smile and say, “When Dad get’s home, he’s going to be so excited!” And, eventually, when he did, he always would be. He’d spin her around and boom out exclamations of pride and affection in his deep, jovial voice. And that was just Ira being Ira, which lit Willow up from the inside and made her glow with joy in a way that Sheila being Sheila really, really didn’t.

Sighing, he reached for the phone at the bedside table and dialed Cordelia’s number again. He left her another long, apologetic message and prayed that she was actually listening to them and not just deleting. Whatever he had done, whatever he had meant to do or might have done with that spell, the truth was he loved her, he needed her. Without her he felt stuck, frozen, helpless, like Sheila Rosenberg, waiting for love to make it possible to live his life again.

***

When Giles walked into his empty house with his arms full of groceries, it felt unnaturally quiet. He missed Buffy already. He wanted her to come home. He smiled grimly at himself. It was winter in Hell. He worked through the night and into the morning; finishing his Report, digging into some old demon research, trying to think of anything that would help with the current vampire infestation at Sunnydale High, anything to keep his mind busy. He thought of various weapons and tactics for underground fighting. Each and every one of them required more Slayer power. It was time to call Zabuto and get Kendra in route, he realized. Giles looked at the clock. Was it three hours later in the Caribbean or only two?

The phone began to ring. Giles picked up instantly. “Buffy?” He called hopefully.

The man on the other end of the line made a small sound of amusement and contempt. “Rupert, my boy, I see you’re as circumspect as ever,” he said sardonically.

“Father,” said Rupert bitterly. “I should have guessed. I suppose you know it’s three-thirty in the morning here?”

“And yet you seem wide awake,” said Andrew Giles coolly. “Conscience bothering you by any chance?”

“Not a bit!” said Rupert defiantly. How was it that his father could always make him feel like _he_ was seventeen? How did the bastard always know everything? Spies probably, Giles realized.

“I’ve been reading your reports,” said Andrew matter-of-factly, looking down at the series of newly printed photographs spread on the desk before him. “I know you well enough to read between the lines.”

“Well then, if you know me so well, you tell me what’s keeping me awake at night.”

“Your Slayer,” he said accusingly. He picked up one of the photographs. It showed a half dressed, more-than-naturally blond teenager pinned between his forty-seven-year-old son and a tastelessly flashy automobile with her tiny fingers twisted in his slightly thinning hair. Her already much too short skirt was riding up her slightly parted thighs so that you could almost see the place where she was all but begging Rupert to touch her. Her feet were only in glancing contact with the pavement. She was wearing _his_ mother’s diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand. Of course, Rupert being Rupert, his idea of correcting one unforgivable transgression _would_ be to commit another one.“You’ve gotten her pregnant, haven’t you?” he concluded.

Giles was quiet a moment. He knew his father wasn’t fishing or bluffing, not with so bold an accusation. That wasn’t his style. He was going on more than the spaces between the words of a few reports. Still, knowing was different than having proof from the horse’s mouth. “Do others in the Council share your... suspicions?” he asked.

“ _Now_ , you’re going to be circumspect?” Andrew scoffed. “A bit late as usual Rupert, and no, not really, at least not as far as I know. Travers _hopes_ , I think, more than suspects, though he’s sure there’s something improper going on. I... assume you’ve... encouraged her to do the right thing.”

“An odd assumption, if what you’re implying is true,” Rupert pointed out. His father’s voice had already told him he assumed no such thing. He was daring his son to lie to him.

“I don’t like to play games,” said the elder Mr. Giles coldly.

Rupert shivered. He could practically hear the clock striking thirteen.“Oh but you do,” he said. “For keeps and for high stakes too. But I don’t. So why don’t you tell me what you hope to gain from this conversation and I’ll see what I can do to accommodate you.”

“I _hope_ to avoid embarrassment,” he said, “though as always, being your father tends to make that rather difficult.”

“Are you my father?” Rupert asked mock innocently, “I think that would be rather difficult to prove from the available documentation.”

“This isn’t about me,” said Andrew bitterly.

“No,” said Rupert, just as harshly. “It never is.”

Maybe bastard children really were God’s punishment for sin, Andrew thought. Of course, he guessed his mother could have said the same thing. “I want to know,” he all but snarled, “if you’re planning to publicly disgrace this family yet again by openly setting up housekeeping with that—”

“I’d choose my next words very carefully were I you,” Rupert cut across him icily.

“— _Slayer_ ,” Andrew concluded sarcastically, “is that a good enough word for her?”

“And she for it, despite what you seem to think.”

“She’s a disgrace,” said Andrew flatly. “You may be used to sharing women with demons, my son, but this Council is not.”

“Ah,” said Rupert, “We’ll always have London, won’t we? So convenient when you need to strike a blow that can’t miss. For twenty-five years, I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do, been exactly whom you have asked me to be, but it’s never enough is it? If ever I dare to try to make my own choices—to have some semblance of a life outside of this... ‘destiny’ you’ve chosen for me—bam! Here we are back in bloody London!”

“You’ve done, mostly, what I’ve asked you to do,” Andrew acknowledged, “but you’ve always been exactly who you are, Rupert. In the end, we all are who we are, no matter how much we may appear to have changed.”

“I am no one but exactly whom you have made me,” said Giles quietly. “I think you know that.”

“Which is not the same as being what I intended you to be,” Andrew replied.

“If we’re going to philosophize on the moral relation of act to intention,” said Giles with grim amusement, “I suspect we’ll both be putting ourselves in uncomfortable company.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, son,” Andrew said, a little mirth creeping into his tone, “you were never that good at philosophy.”

“What would you have me do?” Giles asked simply, sincerely.

“Put a stop to it,” Andrew answered flatly.

“I can’t,” Giles replied. “She won’t and I’ll not ask her again.”

“Then what do you intend to do?” his father asked.

“I love her. I’m going to marry her. If I have to do so in defiance of the Council, I will, but I’d prefer to reach an accommodation if possible.”

“You’ll destroy her,” said Andrew flatly.

“Only if the Council chooses to respond destructively,” Giles argued. “Things have changed. There are two Slayers now, thanks in no small part to Buffy. Has anyone on the Council even begun to contemplate what that means?”

“It means the balance of power has tipped even more in the Council’s favor at the Slayers’ expense,” Andrew responded.

“It means that the Slayer is no longer alone against the Darkness and might actually be able to take a little well deserved rest once in a great while without the world coming to an end as a result,” Giles countered. “It means we might not have to grind them to death under the weight of the world.”

“If only Atlas and Hercules could have worked out a schedule,” said Andrew, with mild derision. “Unfortunately, the Inner Council doesn’t see it that way. They’ve had two Slayers at their command (at least in theory) for a matter of months, and they now feel fully entitled to have both of them wholly committed to the cause.”

“She _is_ wholly committed to the cause,” Giles insisted. “Nothing could ever change that. Granted her... approach to Slaying is... unorthodox, as is her approach to everything, really, but she somehow seems to get more done in the way of fighting the forces of darkness than any ten of the more conventional Slayers I’ve known or studied. Not to mention she literally lay down her life with no expectation of getting it back, and she’d do the same tomorrow if the cause required it! We’re not asking to be allowed to retire into peaceful domesticity. We’re not asking for anything. We’re only proposing to bring a child into the world exactly as it is, into our lives exactly as they are. That’s no more than every parent has done since before the dawn of man. And frankly, I think we’ll manage as least as well as you have.”

“And you want me to... advocate this enlightened position before the Council?” Andrew asked.

“No,” his son pleaded, “Just don’t speak against us.”

“My silence will be taken as consent,” said Andrew in a tone of flat refusal.

“What are you going to do?” Giles asked.

“I’m not going to bring any of this information to the attention of the Council,” his father said. “However, if you persist in this foolishness until the truth inevitably comes to light, I will have no choice but to give my nod of approval to those who propose the harshest penalties for your misconduct and for hers.”

“What if they propose to kill us?” Giles asked levelly.

Andrew laughed, “Don’t be ridiculous, Rupert. This is the twentieth century.”

“Yes,” Giles agreed ruefully, “and what a century it’s been! You haven’t answered my question.”

“I would speak against it,” Andrew half assured him, “but I would not protect you from the Council’s judgment.”

“And what of that other means of disposing of unwanted Slayers?” Rupert asked.

“Not precisely, the function of Cruciamentum,” Andrew replied, “but close enough from the Slayer’s point of view, I suppose, and I fear your point of view is no longer that of a Watcher, Rupert, if ever it was. The Examiner was chosen this morning, with my tacit approval of course. I expect you’ll be officially informed in a day or so. It’s all in his hands now.”

“Who?” Giles asked his heart in his throat.

“Why you’re old supervisor of course,” Andrew said in trap-swinging-shut kind of way, “Mr. Quentin Travers.”

“You bastard!” Rupert spat bitterly. “He’ll murder her! You know it!”

“Who did you think you were dealing with, Rupert?” He demanded harshly. “Did you think I would let you disgrace me like this _again_ without suffering any consequence? How dare you put my mother’s ring on that girl’s finger? How dare you plant the seed of our family’s legacy in the womb of a vampire’s whore!?! I’m only sorry she can’t be examined tomorrow, or better still six months from now.”

“I am your only son!” Rupert shouted with implications of entitlement.

“And therefore owe me more loyalty and respect than you have ever deigned to show, you impudent, ungrateful, misbegotten, son-of-a—” Andrew stopped abruptly.

“Oh, do go on,” Rupert goaded bitterly. “Son of a what? I’ve always wanted to know.”

“She was worth fifty of your ‘Buffy Summers’” the old man said quietly. There was actually a tremor in his voice.

“I’d _like_ to be able to judge that for myself,” Rupert retorted. “I want you to tell me her name!”

“People in Hell want ice water,” said his father.

 ***

When Harmony woke up she had no idea where she was. It was dark and damp, cool but not cold. She was lying on a filthy rug or mat of some kind. It stank. Everything smelled... different than it should have and more complicated. The past thirty-six hours started to come back to her in horrifying flashes of sensation: sights, sounds, smells; shrieks of terror, the taste of blood (exciting only in retrospect, horribly remembered), a hundred different kinds of pain, a draining sensation of fading to nothing. Harmony bolted upright, panicked. Her heart should have been hammering. It wasn’t. It couldn’t. Blood oozed slowly through her veins as if of its own accord. She remembered. She knew, but didn’t understand. “I’m dead,” she said aloud. Her voice sounded small in her own ears.

“‘Undead,’ is the term, actually,” Spike corrected her, amused. “That’s on account of you’re still being able to walk around smiling like an idiot and bollixing things up. When you’re dead, you won’t be able to do that.”

“You!” she said accusingly.

Spike laughed, “Yeah, I kicked the crap out of you,” he said conversationally. “Learn to mind and I won’t have to do it again. Unless I get bored or something.”

“Why should I mind you?” she asked sullenly. “Because you’re my ‘sire’ or whatever?”

“Nah,” said Spike dismissively. “’s’one of the best things about being a demon. You don’t have to do something just because it’s ‘right.’ You mind me ‘cause I’m the Big Bad in these parts, ‘cause I’m bigger, stronger and meaner than you and I can kick the crap out of you again if I want, or snap my fingers and get a dozen vamps to kill you.”

“So I’m just supposed to be your slave forever?” she pouted.

“Yeah,” he said, “but don’t worry. Anybody’ll tell you I’m a damned decent guy to work for, as long as you quit fucking up. ‘S’another good thing about being a demon, you don’t have to lie to yourself. I mean how much do you really like freedom anyway? Don’t you want someone to tell you what to do, to tell you when you’re doing it right?”

Harmony considered this for a moment, but it made her head hurt, so she just shrugged. “I don’t want to get beat up anymore,” she said.

“Then don’t,” Spike told her. “Cheer up,” he added almost sympathetically. “You’re part of an ancient and glorious tradition. You come from a long line of bad ass vampires bent on destroying the world.”

***

“What are you doing here, Allen?” Finch was so startled he almost dropped the stack of police reports he was shuffling through.

“Nothing m-much, Sir,” he stammered, “just going back through the reports on these disappearances. Trying to find something... trying to... fit them into a narrative... Sir.” How was it that his... boss—his boss, his boss that was the word, nothing else, nothing else—could always make him feel that he’d been caught doing something wrong even when all he was doing was working. Because he always was doing something wrong, his conscience reminded him, feeling something wrong, _being_ something wrong. And that wasn’t even counting the work itself.

The Mayor shook his head, looking mildly disapproving. “I can see what you’re _doing_ , Allen. My question is why are you here doing it on Sunday morning? A nice young man like you should be in church on Sunday morning.”

“Ch-church, S-sir?” Allen couldn’t help being unnerved by the inconsistency, the contradiction between what Rich—the Mayor—seemed to be and what he was. The more so because he always had the eerie sense that his boss wasn’t exactly faking any of it just... sort of... being it anyway, damn the contradiction. There were times he wished he had that talent himself.

“Yes, church, Allen,” the Mayor insisted. “Best place to be on a Sunday morning. It shows... respect for the values that make Sunnydale such a clean wholesome place to raise a family.” Allen suppressed a shudder. “I’d be there myself if it wasn’t for... well heck you know. Besides, where else are you going to meet a nice girl these days? Certainly not at one of those dance clubs you kids go to.”

“A n-nice—? I’m... not interested in girls, Sir.” The Mayor gave him what, on the surface, appeared to be a pleasantly puzzled look. He was still smiling, but there was something in the _back_ of his eyes like a warning. Or a threat. “What, I mean...” Allen struggled to clarify, helplessly feeling his face flush, “I’m only interested in my work, Sir. In my career.”

The Mayor sat down in a chair across from Allen’s desk and gave him an appraising look. “How old are you, Allen, about twenty-five?”

“Twenty-six, Sir,” Allen replied, staring blankly at the papers in his hands to avoid the need for eye contact.

“You’ve got what, fifty years ahead of you, more or less. Heck,” he added cheerfully, “in this job probably less.”

“I ... haven’t really thought about it that way,” Allen managed, feeling like there was a little less air in the room than there ought to be.

“Well you should,” the Mayor persisted. “It goes fast, time. It really does.” He seemed more serious than usual. Sad even. It made Allen want to put his arms around him and—and nothing, nothing, damn it! “Family, family is so important, Allen. And not only because it creates an air of respectability. Your family will be there, when everything else is gone... when you find yourself... It fades, eventually, it all fades, everything does... You look into their eyes and you don’t see yourself anymore...” Allen wanted to look into his eyes, to see if he was looking back for something. He didn’t dare. “They melt, they... meld into the mass of humanity until...” He got very quiet for just a second, less, then his smile switched back on like a light bulb. “Would you listen to me,” he said, cheerfully, “I’m not making a very good case, am I? But family really is the best thing for a man your age. It’s... a healthy lifestyle. You really ought to give it some thought.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Allen assured him with as much false conviction as he could summon, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

***

Xander rummaged through Willow’s refrigerator, looking for something easy but not boring. Cooking breakfast had seemed like a good idea for tempting her to actually get out of bed. Then he had realized that it involved actual cooking. Of what he hadn’t quite figured out. Turkey bacon? An abomination from more than one point of view in his humble opinion. He was certain it had never been there when Ira Rosenberg was alive. He could almost hear Willow’s father saying, ‘fake bacon? What not fake human flesh?’

But that was Willow for you; cautiously inquisitive, toes along the line, never stepping over, feeling guilty anyway, stepping back. How had _that_ turned into this... mess? She had crossed more lines in the last couple of weeks than he ever would have thought possible in a lifetime. It was easy to blame Amy, but she had merely been there to pick up the pieces. Willow had been torn apart by Angel, by her father’s death. She had been torn apart from her mother as well as herself. How could he not have known that? How could he not have found a way to help her, _found_ a way to be there for her, whatever her mother said? How could he have left that to Amy, knowing what she was capable of, knowing that she could never care for Willow as much as he did?

Finally he decided he would have to attempt to cook eggs. He wanted the pleasant smell of something to go wafting up the stairs, and neither of them was a drinker of coffee. He got the pan hot and started cracking eggs into it. The result was neither fried nor scrambled, but hardly any of it was very runny or very burnt and he thought he got most of the shells out. He made toast. He poured juice. He sprinkled cheese on the eggs just before they got too cold to melt it. Damn. It worked on television.

Xander went upstairs and knocked on Willow’s door. “Go away,” she said. Her voice sounded thick with tears rather than sleep.

“Come on Wil,” he insisted, “it’s ten o’clock. This isn’t like you. Anyway, you have to eat something.”

“No I don’t,” she said with gloomy defiance. “I think I’ll just lay here for the rest of my life.”

“It’s going to be short, then,” he pointed out.

“Okay,” she said, and she was pretty close to meaning it.

He went in and sat down on the edge of her bed. “I’ll bring you food and water twice a day if you’ll do all my homework,” he said.

“Will you bring in the mail and feed my rat?” she asked.

“Once a day,” he agreed, “but I don’t deal with bedpans, you’re on your own there.”

“Well, then, the whole deal’s off,” she said, sitting up against the pillows with a miserable flicker of a smile. “Oz is supposed to get out of the hospital today or tomorrow,” she added.

“You should go see him,” Xander said very definitely.

“And say what?” Willow challenged miserably.

“Lie to him,” Xander said seriously. “He loves you. A guy can believe anything if he really wants to.”

“I can’t do that to him,” said Willow plaintively, “he deserves the truth, doesn’t he.”

“But it’s not what he needs to hear right now,” Xander told her firmly. “Trust me on this. You guys are right for each other. I didn’t think so at first, but you are. You both need to be there for each other, especially now. But that’s not going to happen if you go and tell him that you sometimes used to be a guy and you cheated on him with another girl who’s now a rat.”

Willow sighed. “Hence the, ‘I’ll just lay here’ plan.”

“Nope,” said Xander flatly, “not happening.” He stood and jerked the covers off the bed.

Willow scrambled to make sure her night shirt covered her panties. “Hey!” she screeched at him, getting to her feet before she knew what was happening. She looked at him half resentfully. “That wasn’t very nice, Alexander Harris,” she said, in a pouty voice.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Come. Downstairs. Less moping, more eating eggs.”

Amy, who was shut up in an old bird cage with a towel and bowel of water, squeaked furiously. “Oh, all right,” Willow said, “you can have some too, come on.” Amy squeaked more furiously still as Willow picked up her cage and carried it downstairs, but she calmed down a little when Willow sat her on a kitchen chair and put some food through the bars.

Getting something to eat actually did make Willow feel a little less like the world was ending and she should just let it. “So what’s going on with the vampires?” she asked after a while. “Any more missing people last night?”

“Nothing new in the paper,” Xander said, “but that doesn’t mean much. They just now got around to reporting half of what happened Friday night. I talked to Mr. and Mrs. Hellmouth this morning. They haven’t heard anything new. Buffy didn’t get to go out last night though because she’s trying this new thing of actually doing what her mom says.”

“It seems like it might be a little late for that,” Willow pointed out skeptically.

“Yeah, well they’re trying it anyway, although I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean for them to do what they were doing when I called over there about an hour ago.”

“You don’t _know_ that,” Willow argued.

“Well when they let the phone ring about ten times and then they both sound like they’ve been running a marathon, it’s pretty easy to pick up on.”

Willow made a face. “Can’t we just say they were training?” she suggested hopefully. Amy Squeaked argumentatively. “Oh, shut up!” Willow said.

‘And the winner is...’ Xander thought, but he said, “Man, I have to see Cordelia!”Willow gave him a look to which she was in no way entitled. “Not for _that_ ,” he said. “I need to apologize about fifty... million more times.”

“I think maybe that’s what you get for lying,” Willow suggested.

“No,” Xander corrected her, “That’s what I get for doing something worth lying about. For lying I get close enough to her that she might actually listen when I apologize. See how that works?”There was that look again, mild reproach and significant skepticism. From someone whose boyfriend was a Werewolf and whose girlfriend was a rat. “Lighten up, Wil,” he advised, “Guilt doesn’t fix anything. It’s all about moving forward. It has to be.”

“I guess,” she sighed, “It’s just... I feel like it makes me an even worse person the less sorry I am.”

“Wil,” he said seriously, affectionately, “you couldn’t be a bad person if you tried. Witness the last week.”

Willow laughed bitterly. “I put my mother in suspended animation and charged $26,000 on her credit cards in five days. I did, you know, that thing with...” she nodded at poor fuzzy little Amy, “instead of my boyfriend, and I put a curse on the County Prosecutor to get out of going to jail even though I’m actually guilty. That’s pretty bad.”

“Well... if you say it all at once like that...” he admitted, teasingly. “Oh come on, Wil, this is all just stress... grief...screwing up. You just have to... not do it anymore.”

“Tell that to my mom,” she said glumly.

“Well... Giles is looking at counter spells for that, right?”

“His exact words,” Willow reminded him “were, ‘Good Lord! I... guess I can try.’”

“Well yeah, but he’s Giles,” Xander pointed out, “He’s all under promise and over perform and... I just went to a scary place in my head.”

“Right there with ya,” Willow assured him with a small shutter. If it was not altogether an unpleasant shutter, Xander didn’t need to know that. _She_ didn’t want to know it either. The truth was, instead of having trouble picturing Buffy and Giles together, she was having trouble not picturing herself there with them. Either of them, both of them. It didn’t lend a lot of support to Xander’s ‘you’re not a bad person’ theorem. Maybe she should just let Oz go, let him be free to do better. Except, wait no, panic, desperation, hopelessness. Not a good idea. Not something she could live with. “Oh God!” she wailed, startling Xander, who of course, had no way of following her train of thought. “What am I gonna do? I need Oz!”

“Tell him that,” Xander advised. “Don’t let him keep wondering.”

 ***

“Oh yeah,” Buffy cried. Her blood was pumping, her breathing hard. “That’s just what I’ve been needing! God it feels like it’s been a year!”

Giles doubled over, panting, holding up a hand in a blocking gesture, unable to speak. “I think...” he was able to gasp at length, “I’ve had... enough... for one... day. Don’t want... to go... right back... to hospital... so soon.” Buffy threw him a towel as she grabbed her bottle of water from the decorative wrought iron table. The cool breeze blowing though the courtyard behind Giles’ apartment felt good on her hot skin.

Catching his breath at last, Giles unstrapped his protective padding and laid it on the table. He sat down in one of the chairs waiting for his heart rate to return to normal. Buffy came around behind him and put her hands on his shoulders, massaging them gently. “Thanks for the workout,” she said, “I’m going to take a shower.”

He smiled. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

She smiled back. “I thought you’d had enough for one day.”

“A false equivalency is the worst type of misrepresentation,” he pretended to lecture, eyes twinkling. He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her.

“I’m all sweaty,” she objected halfheartedly.

“I think we had already hit on a solution to that,” he pointed out, getting them both to their feet. He followed her through the kitchen door, into the house and up the stairs. She bounded ahead of him, full of energy, full of life. She was too good to be true, much better than he deserved. He couldn’t stop grinning.

In the bathroom, Buffy shucked off her shorts, panties, tank top and jog bra and tossed them in the hamper, smiling self-consciously. As far as Giles could see, she didn’t have anything to be self-conscious about. “God you are beautiful!” he said, getting out of his own clothes and into the shower. Incredibly, she followed him into the steaming water looking at his own naked body with both appreciation and desire. He rubbed his soapy hands over the smooth curves of her body on the very thin pretext of washing her soft skin.

“I never would have thought of this,” she said, enjoying the feel of his fingers sliding over her flesh, “but I think I like it. I guess I’m not the only one,” she added, half amused, running one hand lovingly along the length of his cock. He pulled her to him and kissed her, their wet, slippery bodies rubbing delightfully against one another.

“Showering alone is a waste of water,” said Giles with mock gravity.

The shower was a short one but very thorough. There was not an inch of skin on either of their bodies that did not get vigorously rubbed down with soap under the steaming water. One large, fluffy bath towel served to dry both of them, neither feeling like wrapping it around them or keeping it on too long. They moved from the bathroom to the bedroom, kissing and caressing as they went, unable to keep their hands and mouths off of one another’s bodies. They lay down on the bed and Giles wrapped his naked body around Buffy’s.

Whatever the downsides to their April/September romance, he had to admit that there was something thrilling about knowing that almost anything he did with Buffy (other than a good hard fuck in the missionary position) was something she’d be experiencing for the first time, something new that he could share with her. The truth was, though he doubted whether he was up to such a feat any longer, he’d had more sex in one night that she’d had in her whole lifetime, and on more than one occasion, come to that. They hadn’t yet scratched the surface of even his basic repertoire. And she was so eager, so willing to learn. It made him feel like a sculptor with a beautiful piece of marble all his very own. He knew just what he wanted to show her next.

“Hey,” said Buffy, feeling herself slightly less embraced as Giles moved his kisses down the length of her torso and wrapped his arms around her just below the waist, massaging her buttocks, “where are you going?”

“To the center of the universe,” he murmured against her navel, still headed in a southerly direction.

A split second after she realized what he meant by that, his mouth made contact with her cunt. He didn’t just brush her with his lips or tease her with the tip of his tongue either. He set to work like a man on a mission. “Oh, wow!” she said. He made it feel like the center of the universe, like nothing going on outside of that location could possibly matter very much. It went on like that minute after minute after minute, almost too intense to be endured. Almost. He held her to his mouth until she came and then, continued, working his lips and tongue against her shuddering pussy mercilessly until she came again. “Jesus Christ!” she gasped, “ _you’re_ going to give _me_ a heart attack.”

He laughed, “You thought perhaps it should be the other way round?” He teased, climbing on top of her.

“Well you are very old,” Buffy teased back, totally unable to keep a straight face. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, giggling with joy.

“Old enough to teach you a thing or two yet,” he agreed happily, rolling over on his back and pulling her on top of him. Buffy politely refrained from mentioning that this was actually something she had done once before, for part of the time anyway. Considering what he’d just done for her, she was happy to do it however he wanted and to let him think what he wanted about it too. Not that it was much of a sacrifice. Even in this position, with her doing most of the work, he knew exactly when to add a little bit of emphasis. The freedom of motion was also sort of a relief after enduring so much ecstasy without really moving at all. She had him pretty close to coming pretty quickly, so she slowed things down a little, enjoying the knowledge as well as the sensation of having him inside her, wanting it to last a little longer. He moaned with a mixture of pleasure and frustration. She relented, riding him harder again. He made a sort of a hungry noise in his throat and grabbed her by the hips, thrusting upward now. He came inside of her, calling out her name.

Once again, they lay gasping in each other’s arms. Buffy sighed contentedly, enjoying the pleasantly abraded feeling of having been well and truly fucked. After a while, her breathing returned to normal and her skin hummed just a little less along the extensive plane of contact with his. She could feel his breathing and heart rate slowing as well. “Not bad for an old man, eh?” he said proudly. Buffy snuggled happily against his chest, murmuring her ascent.

***

“Oh,” said, Mr. Osborne with the polar opposite of warmth and enthusiasm. “You must be Willow. Danny was starting to worry that you’d been kidnapped or something. I told him you just weren’t taking his calls.”

Willow smiled weakly. “Well... I’m... here now. Can I come in?”

Mr. Osborne stood aside and silently ushered her in like a good Sunnydale citizen. “He’s upstairs,” he said, almost hostilely. “We had to carry him up.”

Being an avid student of science, Willow Rosenberg happened to know that primates, including humans, are more closely related to rabbits, mice and other small, easily frightened animals than to dog, cats or any of the braver species that we admire so much. If she hadn’t known, she would have suspected it. Her heart was hammering on her chest to get out. With every step towards the stairs, she had to fight the urge to literally turn and run. When she started climbing, her knees nearly buckled. Her hands were shaking so hard, she could hardly cling to the rail, and yet she felt the need to cling to it.

She had never actually been upstairs in Oz’s house. It was a neat, normal hallway, like hallways anywhere, but at the end of it was Oz’s door, handily marked with a poster of fractals in psychedelic colors. Suddenly, she felt a little better. There was no one as awesome as Oz. Maybe he would forgive her. Maybe he would understand. Then again, maybe he would fall on the floor and scream that she’d broken his heart. He might tear open his lung and have to be rushed to the hospital. He might die gasping for breath. Xander was right she realized. Oz needed her to lie to him.

She knocked hesitantly on the door. “Come in,” Oz called. The sound of his voice filled her with love and pain and joy and remorse. She steeled her resolve and entered. His eyes registered surprise and relief. “Hey,” he said smiling a small smile. He sounded... slightly uneasy. For Oz, that meant deeply troubled.

“Hey,” she replied nervously.

“I called,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I know,” Willow admitted apologetically. “I just... things have been really crazy the last few days.”

Willow hovered in the doorway, not seeming to want to come near. Oz could see, hear and smell that she was worried, terrified in fact, of what he might find out about the last few ‘crazy’ days. He thought again of that strange male scent, but he didn’t smell it now. He smelled soap, jittery Willow, fake fruit shampoo, fried eggs and rat. “I thought you would call me back,” he said simply.

“And I didn’t, and I should have, but I couldn’t, but I’m here now,” Willow babbled, “and I love you, and I missed you, and I want us to be together always, you and me and not anybody else.”

Oz was suddenly tense. He knew that Willow felt it. Her fear sharpened. “You said that before,” he pointed out warily.

“I did?” Willow squeaked.

“So who else don’t you want to be with,” he asked, a slight edge to his voice, “and what have you been doing all week to figure that out?”

“What... um...are you...talking about, ‘cause...I certainly...don’t know?” Her words were stilted and unnatural as if being force out of her mouth by some means not directly under her control. She was the world’s worst liar. Normally he found it endearing. But not now. Because Oz was more sure by the second that he knew what she was lying about.

“Just tell me who it is!” he demanded, his voice strangled and wounded. He was sitting upright now. “Is it Xander!?!”

“What? No!” she seemed genuinely surprised. “I love you!” She insisted fiercely, tears suddenly bursting from her. “There’s no one! There’s no one else!” She knelt by his bed, laid her head in his lap and wept. The words were true, he realized. Or at least she meant them. Oz found himself running a soothing hand through Willows hair. He felt his sudden anger ebbing away just as suddenly. He didn’t need to know, he didn’t want to know, he decided. He needed her. He needed her to stay and fill the space in his heart that had been empty and aching for the last four days. There were only three more days until the Wolf Moon. There was so much that could go wrong.

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face. “We’re here now,” he acknowledged. Willow stood up, leaned over his bed and kissed him very gently on the lips, tears still streaming down her face. She was careful not to put too much pressure on his still bruised and swollen face. He pulled her gently towards him. She sat down on his bed and put her arms around his neck and her head on his chest. He embraced her and buried his face in her hair. Underneath the chemically synthesized apples and berries, she still smelled of Willow. There was less fear now, a different kind of excitement. It was an inviting smell. Oz leaned back against his pillows without releasing Willow from his embrace. The effort of movement caused a sharp stab of pain in his ribcage, but he ignored it. She shifted slightly to make sure her weight was being born by the mattress and not his battered body. She pulled his bed covers aside. He was wearing a robe that opened down the front. She leaned over him and planted a row of kisses down the center of his chest where there were hardly any bruises, opening the robe as she went.

Oz smiled. He could see where this was going. He liked where it was going, but he wasn’t sure the thinking behind going there was anything like clear enough to prevent regrets afterward He held Willow out from him just a little and looked her in the eyes. More pain, just on the ‘tolerable’ side of excruciating. “Don’t write me off just yet,” he said, “I don’t need any parting gifts if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“It’s not,” she assured him unconvincingly. He gave her his best skeptical look. “Well, maybe it is a little,” she admitted. “But it’s not... I’m not trying to do you a favor,” she explained. “This is... It’s my moment I’m wanting to seize.”

“We haven’t been going out that long,” he reminded her. “I don’t want you to do something just because things are extreme right now and then feel bad about it.”

Willow took both of his hands in hers and gave him a firm, steady look. “I want you.” She said decisively. “I need you. I want to be with you, to... have been with you. Because it’s right. Because it’s the truth. Whatever else happens to either of us for the rest of our lives...” She lowered her voice to the edge of audibility and flushed a beautiful pink, “I want you to be the first man to fuck me.” The word itself didn’t come out that easily, but there it was. It was pretty hard to doubt her sincerity.

Oz’s heart was pounding. His skin was humming. She made a pretty compelling argument. But his patched up lung was hurting more than ever, and his ribs hurt worse, even through the morphine, a medication which tended to cause other problems, or so he’d heard. “I’m... interested,” he said, “but I don’t know about the logistics. I think we might just have to call it something to live for.”Willow looked disappointed. Oz smiled. “It seemed like you might have had some kind of an intermediate step in mind a minute ago,” he said.

She favored him with a shyly mischievous smile. “I thought I might, you know, do that other thing guys like,” she admitted.

“I think that’s feasible,” he said. Willow grinned and reached into his robe. She put her hand on his penis. It plumped up a little in response, maybe thirty percent erect now. Oz’s eyes widened. Even after the conversation they’d just had, he hadn’t expected her to move that fast. The way she grabbed right a hold and slid her hand like a cylinder from the head to the base and halfway back up again, pulling the lose skin a little tight but not too tight, told him that she’d had her hands on one before. That was contrary to his previous impression. He tried not to wonder whether his impression had been wrong or her experience level had changed. It was getting easier not to wonder about things. He was starting to doubt that there was all that much to the evils of morphine after all.

Still holding his hardening cock at mid-shaft, Willow leaned down and took the head into her mouth, her long red hair falling around her face, sweeping against his groin and belly. Oz moaned with pleasure, then winced in pain as he arched his back without really meaning to and stretched a wrong muscle in his chest somewhere. Willow stopped and looked up at him worriedly. She looked a little comical still holding the head of his penis in her mouth with that look on her face. A little comical and very, very sexy. “My fault,” he said. “Keep going.” She did.

This at least was clearly something she had never done before. “Not quite so hard,” he had to tell her. “Yeah, like that. Use your tongue.” After a minute or two, his dick was so big and so hard that she couldn’t really get it all in her mouth without gagging. He had to tell her that it was okay to just suck the end of it and use her hands on the rest. He tried not to let her know each time he had a sudden stab of pain from his inability to lie completely still while she made love to him with her mouth. His now very heavy breathing was also becoming more and more painful. The balance was still tipped to the side of pleasure, but not by much. It didn’t matter. He wanted the pleasure more than he wanted to avoid the pain. He was keenly aware that within a few days he might be permanently beyond the reach of either sensation.

He wanted so very badly to give her what she’d really come for! He was definitely hard enough now to do it in this position. But the pain to pleasure ratio would have been just too much, intimations of mortality notwithstanding. He also didn’t happen to have any condoms handy. The way she was going at it now, slurping and stroking like the fate of the world depended on his impending orgasm, he didn’t think counting on her to stop on command was the best plan in the world.

Suddenly, she _was_ stopping. Oz had a very uneasy feeling about what that meant. Surly not, he told himself. Surly she was going to finish with her hands, she just didn’t want to have to spit or swallow. But she was shifting positions in a way that was impossible to misinterpret. She was pushing her skirt up and her underwear down. If he was going to object, he had damned well better do it now. He didn’t. He wasn’t really sure what all was about to happen to his body or that it would be ‘worth it’ in any sense, but he was too close to irresistible temptation not to find out.

“God, Willow!” he gasped, as she slid her hot, wet cunt down over his dick.

“I love you, Oz,” she sighed, then gave a started gasp as he filled her more completely. She felt an instant, not even a second of pain, the fleeting present severing the past from the future, sharp like a glass breaking. She belonged to him at last, the way it should be.

Willow felt Oz move within her, then he cried out in pain. She felt slightly panicked, not knowing whether to stop and let him catch his breath or to move enough to remove the temptation for him to do so. She tried the latter, mostly because she couldn’t not. The sensation was so intense, so gratifying. It was almost as physically pleasurable as fucking Amy, and it felt at lot more satisfying more... right. But Oz cried out again, clearly in agony. “We have to stop,” he gasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Willow raised herself off of Oz and lay down on her side next to him. She felt an odd mixture of frustration, accomplishment and guilt. “Are you alright?” she asked. Oz grimaced, and nodded. He was in such a state of pain, arousal and frustration that it was difficult to think and impossible to talk. He wanted her to finish him off, but not if it was going to finish him off.

Suddenly there was a sound of rapidly approaching footsteps and a hard wrapping on the door. With a little cry of distress, Willow scrambled to get her underwear back up and her skirt down, as Mr. Osborne shouted, “Danny are you okay in there?”

“I’m fine, Dad,” he called out, in a thin, shaky voice that didn’t sound fine at all.

Willow managed to hop up from the bed just as the door was opening, but Oz didn’t have the presence of mind to close his robe until it was already open. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Mr. Osborne demanded of Willow rather than of Oz.

Willow warbled an inarticulate song of panic and guilt. “Leave her alone, Dad,” Oz said firmly. “I’m a grown man.” Mr. Osborne shook his head, looked disapprovingly at Willow one more time, closed the door and left. “Maybe you’d better go,” Oz said to her apologetically.

Willow nodded. “Can I call you tonight?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Oz agreed. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”

She hadn’t been gone five minutes when his father reappeared in the doorway. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” he said in a stern, serious kind of tone.

“Talk,” Oz said.

“Do you have any idea who that girl is?” he asked.

Oz smiled. “I like to think so,” he said.

“She’s a Levine,” said Mr. Osborne harshly.

“Rosenberg,” Oz corrected him.

“I’m talking about her mother’s family,” his father explained, although Oz knew for a fact that Sheila’s maiden name was Kaminski. “It was before your time, hell I was just a kid, but everyone who’s lived in this town for very many years knows about the Levines, or they ought to. They’re dangerous women. You don’t want to get mixed up with one.”

“Dangerous?” said Oz amused. “Dad, I’m a werewolf.”

His father made a very unpleased expression but otherwise ignored the comment. “She’s a witch.” He said after a long moment.

“No she’s not,” Oz answered dismissively. “Her friend Amy is. Anyway, so what?”

His father shook his head. “For a ‘grown man’ you sure don’t know a hell of a lot about the world,” he said.

“You raised me,” Oz pointed out. “What did you forget to tell me?”

“Witches are evil,” his father said seriously, “whether they mean to be or not. Their power comes from the dark gods. It can’t be used for good.”

“And you think Willow’s a witch because of her grandmother’s maiden name,” Oz surmised.

“‘The poisonous tree cannot bring forth good fruit.’” his father quoted gravely. “‘That which originates from a black deed will blossom in a foul manner.’”

Oz raised an eyebrow. His father was not the scripture quoting type. He wasn’t even the movie quoting type. “You’re serious,” he said, puzzled.

“Yes,” his father said looking him steadily in the eye.

Oz didn’t know what to think. It sounded completely irrational, but irrational was not his father’s style. He thought of the mysterious statue of Willow’s probable ancestor he’d encountered in the Star of David Cemetery. She had indeed seemed powerful, dangerous. “I’ll keep my eyes open,” he promised.

His father sighed with resignation. “Believe what you see,” he advised his son. “Don’t try to rationalize it. In the meantime,” he added, “if you have to have sex with her, use a condom.”

“I know how not to multiply,” Oz assured his father.

“It’s not just that,” his father advised, “You don’t want a witch to get... a piece of you, especially with your consent. It gives her power over you.”

“Since when do you know so much about witches?” Oz asked.

His father shuddered. “Since I had to grow up in this town,” he said sharply, cutting off discussion of the matter. After more than thirty years, he could still smell the diesel smoke and the seared flesh. He could still hear the shrieks of the dying, the exhortations to remain firm: ‘There’s no cure but the fire!’

 


	3. Past, Present and Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giles gives Buffy a present, a personal revelation, a history lesson and (oh look) a book. Buffy gives Cordelia some bad news that leads her to a life changing decision, maybe more than one. Joyce faces a difficult decision of her own. Spike and his minions deliver a peace offering (of sorts) to the town fathers, even as they struggle with their own personal... er...um...demons? Issues? Bunnies?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part I: Motherless Child

 

Sunday morning slid into Sunday afternoon. Giles wasn’t dozing, just pleasantly lethargic, holding Buffy in his arms, not saying much, basking in the summer of contentment. Suddenly she half sat up, propping on her elbows with her chin in her hands. “What’s your middle name?” she asked.

He blinked a little. It struck him as odd, of all of the things she could have been thinking about at that moment. Then again, it was a fairly basic thing, he realized, not to know about one’s intended spouse. “Simon,” he said, a little embarrassed, “so if you’re casting about for something better to call me,” he teased, “I’m afraid you may be out of luck.”

Buffy made a small face. “I think Simon probably is better than Rupert, actually, but I’d rather stick with Giles. Although... if it’s also going to be my name that could be a little confusing.”

“Are you really thinking about changing your name?” he asked, surprised.

Buffy thought for a moment. “I hadn’t really thought about _not_ changing it,” she said, “I mean, you’re mister traditional, I thought you’d be all about it.”

“Well, I mean... it’s not that I mind. It’s... flattering. I’m just not used to seeing it amongst... educated people.”

Buffy shrugged and smiled. “Well you know I’ve only finished the tenth grade,” she teased, “I guess I just don’t know any better.”

“That’s not enormously funny,” he pointed out, but he was smiling.

“What _are_ we going to do about school?” she asked seriously. “Next year, I mean. The baby’s due in November. That’s like half way between midterms and finals.”

Giles thought for a moment. He had not taken much time to ponder that particular aspect of the practicalities. “Well... I think you ought to try to stay at Sunnydale High as long as possible. Otherwise we won’t be very well positioned to keep an eye on the Hellmouth, will we?”

“Okay,” said Buffy, mock seriously, “so the plan is to flunk all of my classes and get held back until I turn twenty-one and they kick me out. Got it.”

Giles laughed. “No one should be called upon to make that great a sacrifice,” he said. “We’ll... talk to your guidance counselor—good lord that’s Alice isn’t it?—well, but, early in the school year anyway, we’ll talk to her and see what they... usually do.”

“God, this is going to be weird,” Buffy said, “I mean, I’m used to being the gossip of the whole student body ‘cause, I’m the psycho chick that’s never around unless something crazy’s happening, but I don’t know if I can handle being the talk of the teacher’s lounge.”

Giles diplomatically refrained from informing her that such was already the case. He hoped his colleagues would at least be professional enough not to let her know that they were speculating day and night on the details of her sexual life with him. “We’ll... get through it somehow,” he assured her. “A any rate... talking of... all matters educational... I have something for you. Something I should have given you long before now.”

“More presents?” said Buffy hopefully, “besides the shiny ring?”

“I don’t know if you’d call it a ‘present’ exactly,” Giles said half apologetically. He got up, slipped into a robe and went across the hall to his study. The nursery? He needed a bigger apartment, he realized, just at exactly the time he was about to be out of a job, of course. He had assets, but with the future so uncertain, was this really the time to be depleting his savings? He supposed he could find room for more of his books down stairs. He could put the desk in the bedroom.... At any rate, there it was in the bottom desk drawer, where it had been for over a year. He blew the dust off and started to carry it back into the bedroom.

As he turned to go, his eyes fell on a brown cardstock file on one of the shelves, the kind that’s made to look like a leather dossier at considerably less expense. Thinking of the unflattering comments Buffy had made about herself the day before, he unwound the synthetic strings from the paper fasteners and opened the thing up. He carefully selected a particular photograph and tucked it inside the book. Maybe he could give Buffy a present after all.

The thing landed with a solid thump on the bed next to Buffy. She looked at it. Definitely not a present. She had seen it before, though she’d all but forgotten. _‘I know what you’re after.’ ‘That’s not what I’m looking for.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘I’m way sure.’_ And she had been too. Even now she had a tiny thrill of horror as she picked up the book and looked at it. The elaborately textured cover bore a large gothically lettered title: VAMPYR, and underneath, in much smaller faded gold script, the subtitle: A HANDBOOK FOR SLAYERS.

“I thought you said the handbook ‘would be of no use in my case,’” said Buffy, half accusingly.

“Well,” Giles admitted sheepishly, “I could hardly have Kendra telling Mr. Zabuto that I wasn’t Watcher enough to get you to read it.”

“God, I was such a brat to you last year,” Buffy accused herself, “how did you stand it?”

Giles smiled. “It was an incredible feat of intestinal fortitude,” he teased, leaning down to kiss her lips, “for which I am now being karmicly rewarded.” Buffy put her arms around him and pulled him down onto the bed. “Please,” he laughed, “have mercy. Leave me alive!”

“Only if you tell me everything I want to know,” she said with absurd gravity.

“Alright,” he agreed, pulling the old photo from inside the book and laying it on top, “but first you have to let me give you a present.”

Buffy, propped herself up on her elbows again and picked up the photograph. It showed young girl blonde enough and radiant enough for both qualities to be displayed quite clearly in black and white. “This looks like a younger version of Mom,” she said. Giles tried very hard to suppress a laugh, covering it with a throat clearing noise. “Who is she?” Buffy asked.

“Maria Schtropp,” he answered gravely, “aged sixteen, taken in Munich in 1941.”

“Grandma Summers?” Buffy asked surprised. Giles nodded. “Is this the present?” She asked skeptically, “’cause if that uniform is what I think it is, I think I liked to Vampire book better.”

Giles smiled, darkly amused, “It is the Uniform of the BDM, the female equivalent of the Hitler Youth,” he admitted, “but I wouldn’t make too much out of it, all the popular girls were wearing them.”

“Wow,” said Buffy, trying to be cool about it, “and Mom always said she was a Communist. Um, thanks? I guess?”

“The photo isn’t the present,” said Giles seriously. “The story is the present. Less than a month after this photograph was taken, Maria came home from school and found her mother shot to death in her living room. She’d been secretly working as a spy, radioing information to a Communist Resistance cell in France who were able to relay it to the allies. That day Maria burned her uniform, ran away from home, declared herself a Communist and set to work carrying out sabotage attacks—arson mostly, but quite a few bombings and some hijackings—on various military and industrial targets.”

“Oh-my-God, really?!” Buffy interjected doubtfully. Grandma Summers was the kind of Grandma that drew little smiley faces in the cookies she baked for the PTA bake sale. She sewed and knitted and built gingerbread houses for Christmas, not the kind that came in a kit with instructions either. ...which, there again...

“Yes, really,” Giles assured her. “In fact she was so successful that to this day most historians attribute her work to a half a dozen cells comprising some thirty people. In actuality, she usually worked alone or with one or two trusted Comrades. She was, by the way, a very sincere Communist, and a spy for the Soviet Union until 1963. Your mother was right about that.”

Buffy smiled sardonically and yet also affectionately at half forgotten memories: wooden trains, rag dolls, smiley faced arguments between her mother and grandmother about the role of children’s movies in marketing sweets and toys and fast food, bedtime stories that never ever ended with happily ever after. _‘... But I’ve bought a big bat. I’m all ready you see. Now my troubles are going, To have troubles with me.’_ “How do you know all this?” she asked.

“The Council operated continuously on both sides of the Iron Curtain at very high levels of government throughout the Cold War,” he explained. “We have always had very good sources of information. At any rate, even the Russians, who recognized Maria for the individual phenomenon that she was, never knew quite what to make of her. They called her the ‘apparition’ because they said that she came out of nowhere. But she didn’t come from nowhere. No one does.”

“She came from her radio spy mother,” Buffy summarized.

“Not only her mother, but also her father,” Giles informed her. “You see, although she never knew it until much later in life, Maria was never qualified to wear that BDM uniform. She was what the Nuremberg Racial Laws called a ‘Half-Jew,’ the illegitimate daughter of one Hans Blumenthal. The reason she never knew this was not because her father ever intended to abandon the family, but because he was killed in the Spanish Civil War fighting against the Fascists when Maria was three years old. In fact, at the time that photograph was taken, Maria’s grandparents, Karl and Rachel Blumenthal, were imprisoned in a Concentration Camp in Poland.”

Buffy was shocked. She had always thought of the Holocaust as a terrible, terrible thing that happened to someone a lot more thoroughly else. “They died there?” she asked, still not quite believing it.

“They did,” Giles acknowledged. “Karl was killed in the gas chamber later that same year. Rachel was a little bit of a different story. She died in 1943 at the age of fifty-eight, but she wasn’t gassed or starved to death. She died with a rifle in her hands and Nazi blood on her bayonet leading a camp uprising that killed more than a hundred guards and soldiers and took two thousand men to put down.”

“Wow,” Buffy said. She was too stunned to have much else to say. It was a lot of information to process.

“The point is this,” Giles said in a very intense, Watcherly way. “Maria Schtropp didn’t ‘come out of nowhere’ and neither did you. You didn’t ‘walk away with’ someone else’s power, Buffy. You _are_ the Chosen One and you were chosen for a reason, because you can handle it, because you do deserve it, because you and only you are right for the job here and now. Because you are the kind of person who, when push comes to shove, would _choose_ to fight the forces of darkness, and for the same reasons that so many of your ancestors have. Because it’s the right thing to do, because it needs doing. Fate chose you to be capable of stopping the Master from rising, but you are the one who chose to actually go and do it. I haven’t forgotten that and neither should you!”

“Gosh,” said Buffy facetiously, “if you get this worked up every time I make a little joke at my own expense, we might have a problem.”

“Well I won’t have anyone insulting my wife,” Giles informed her, eyes twinkling. “Now,” he said feeling a little apprehensive, “what was it you wanted to ask me?”

“I don’t know where to start.” Buffy said, “I feel like there should be a questionnaire or something with all the things I need to know about you just to catch up, like one of those forms you get in a doctor’s office or something: date of birth, mother’s maiden name, Social Security Number, etc. etc.”

Giles tried not to let her see his discomfort. “I don’t actually have a Social Security Number,” he pointed out, sidestepping the more sensitive and seriously meant questions. “I’m in the control group of your grand experiment.”

Buffy’s brow furrowed. “Don’t get all avoidy on me,” she said. “You know my ancestors back to Adam and Eve apparently. I’m not allowed to know your mother’s maiden name?”

“Sorry,” he said, “old habits I suppose. I’m forty-seven. I was born in Bath in 1951, but I was raised mostly in Cambridge where my father, Andrew Giles, lectured most of his career. You know about Oxford and... London.” He said the word with such distaste as to leave no doubt what period in his life he was referring to. “Afterward I returned to Oxford and finished my degree.”

Giles paused, taking a deep breath while he tried to decide how much of the next unpleasant period in his life he was prepared to disclose, or for that matter, how much his young bride was actually prepared to hear. He didn’t really trust himself to say much about his association with Travers. He was still too angry, too worried, too _guilty_ about Travers’ selection as Examiner and all that it implied. He was also ashamed of that period in his life. As bad as things had gotten in London, there was no doubt in his mind that the atonement had been worse than the original sin, though he’d rather have gone on talking, even about that, than to have answered some of Buffy’s actual questions.

“After a period of... I suppose you would call it probation,” he said finally, reluctantly, like a man looking for the least offensive way to describe something truly unpleasant, “I was admitted to the Council. Along the way I did some graduate work in History, Anthropology and Archaeology. I’ve lectured some and worked quite a lot in museums... and there were my Slayers, which I’ve told you about, and that brings us more or less up to date.”

Buffy had the strong sense that he was editing a lot, but even so, for him, it was a lot of disclosure. He was just a little bit older than she had thought, closer to fifty than forty, not that it mattered much she supposed. She’d already known he was beyond too old for her by any societal standard. Still, she wanted to know more about his family, the forbearers of her child-to-be. “So your _father_ was what, a professor and a Watcher?” she persisted, looping back to her original question, “What about your mother? What was her name? What was she like?”

“Can I withdraw my plea?” Giles begged more or less seriously. His deep passionate kiss and his hands on her breasts caught Buffy off guard in the pleasantest possible way. She moved toward him responsively. A tiny, paranoid part of her brain said he was deliberately trying to distract her for some reason, but she didn’t listen to it. He _was_ deliberately trying to distract her, but his tactical ardor was suddenly very genuine. He found her body and her passion very inspiring. In a few moments, he was on top of her, two fingers working inside of her, making her gasp.

“Get on your knees,” he whispered, deciding what he wanted to see her experience next, “and back up to the edge of the bed. Just trust me,” he added in response to her mildly skeptical look. She got into the requested position as he got to his feet, stood close behind her, and slid the head of his dick a little way inside her pussy, more or less teasing her with it. Buffy hadn’t formed a clear idea of what made her nervous about getting into this position until she found herself feeling _relieved_ to know what he wasn’t planning to do to her. She was trying to stay in the spirit, but she was getting tired of constantly ‘trying something different.’ She was starting to feel like somebody’s new toy, somebody who wanted to push all of her buttons and see if she could do everything it showed in the commercial.

“Perfect,” Giles murmured, grabbing her hips and thrusting himself the rest of the way inside of her.

“Oh wow,” she gasped. It was hard to stay bothered by Giles trying out all of her buttons when it felt so good having them pushed. This particular position was definitely a trade off: not so much caressing and togetheryness as making love face to face, but the way the very fattest part of the base of his dick stretched her pussy open again and again with every single stroke was a new sensation well worth feeling. She rubbed her lips over and around and against her clit, which otherwise would have been utterly ignored in this position.

“Oh, dear lord!” Giles gasped. Buffy suppressed a sigh, realizing that as usual, this pronouncement was a sign that the end was nigh. Sure enough, he was coming already, but thankfully, he still had very talented hands with which he soon returned to the task that had been interrupted by this latest bout of experimentation. It wasn’t the best sex she’d had all day, but it was still pretty good. She guessed the fact that both of those things could be true meant they were doing something right.

Nevertheless, as the rush of sexual pleasure receded, Buffy found herself feeling unfulfilled in a very different way. “Why don’t you want to tell me about your mother?” She asked quietly.

Giles sat up against the headboard, breaking physical contact with her completely. He ran the fingers of one hand nervously through his hair. “Well...” he said awkwardly, “It’s... rather embarrassing, actually. You see,” he explained, “I do know all of your ancestors for five generations back, most of them for ten, some much further. And I know a quarter of my own ancestors to the tenth century and beyond, but the other seventy-five percent of my lineage is a complete mystery to me.”

Buffy was momentarily confused. She knew he knew who his father was, and his father’s mother. The missing three quarters would have to include everything on his mother’s side. “So your mother was... abandoned?” she asked, trying to make sense of the cryptic bits of information she was pulling from him.

“I haven’t any notion,” he clarified bitterly. “I never knew her. I do not know her name.”

Buffy was shocked. “How is that possible?” she asked.

Giles made a dry, hollow sound between a laugh and a snort. “Through the dark art of bureaucracy all things are possible,” he said sardonically. “All my life, I’ve had to live with a birth certificate that says I was born to Helena Giles, aged fifty, no father listed; stamped ‘Amended Certificate’—which I should bloody well hope so since my father has a ‘Original Certificate’ listing her as his mother, also solo.”

“So your grandmother adopted you?” Buffy interpreted.

“So it would appear,” said Giles in a tone of harsh skepticism. “I certainly thought so, until about twenty years ago, when legislation was passed giving adopted children in Britain access to their original birth and adoption records. They weren’t able to find any records on me at’all. No Order of Adoption, no Original Birth Certificate, nothing. It was concluded that no Original Certificate had ever been issued for me, at least not under the name ‘Rupert’ let alone ‘Giles’ and that I had probably not been born at the time and place listed, at least not in with a physician attending. It was recommended that I contact organizations designed to locate missing and exploited children.”

“Oh my God!” Buffy interjected, horrified.

“Of course I _knew_ better than that,” Giles explained. “Adoption was only instituted in Great Britain in 1926, in derogation of the Common Law. As far as the Council is concerned, there is no such thing. I was enrolled as a Watcher as ‘Rupert Giles, son of Andrew, son of Helena, daughter of Anthony, son of Richard, etc., etc.’ I am absolutely certain that the Council has ample evidence to support those assertions or I would never have been admitted. No, God help me, I’m no changeling. I am my father’s son, blast him to Hell!” The hatred in his voice was palpable and frightening.

“Your father never told you anything before he died?” Buffy asked.

Giles was silent for a moment. “My father is alive,” he said at last, “still a Watcher, and a very powerful one.”

Buffy was shocked once again. It should have been good news, even given their history, but he didn’t say it that way. “Why didn’t you mention that when we talked about your relatives before?” she asked.

“Because you asked about relatives that might help us,” he replied. “My father does not fit that description.”

“But he’s helped you before,” Buffy surmised, “he must have. I mean, it can’t be that easy to get back into Oxford when you walk out in the middle of the semester.”

“Oh he did,” Giles admitted, “and it wasn’t easy for him in any sense. But that was... a long time ago. I spoke to him early this morning. He told me, in somewhat less kind language than I care to repeat, that he will not help us and... that he would rather you died tomorrow than that we should ever marry or have a child.”

“ _Less_ kind than, ‘I wish you were dead?’” Buffy repeated incredulously.

“Significantly,” Giles confirmed apologetically. “He did say that he won’t report us to the Council himself, which I suppose is something.”

“How much did you tell him?” Buffy asked.

“Nothing actually,” Giles said. “He told me. I’m not surprised. He has spies everywhere.”

“Your father has spies,” Buffy said in that flat this-should-be-a-question-except-the-answer-is-too-obvious-and-why-am-I-not-surprised tone she had. She was quiet for a minute. “Giles,” she asked, “he’s not... in charge of the Watcher’s Council, is he?”

“What? No,” Giles insisted unconvincingly, “Not... well no one is exactly ‘in charge’. Ordinary Watchers, like myself, make up the Outer Council. We have a say in certain types of policy decisions, but the leadership is evenly divided—officially at least—among the members of the Inner Council, the Seven Equals as they are called.”

“But some are more ‘equal’ than others, aren’t they?” Buffy persisted, narrowing her eyes a little.

Giles sighed. “Yes, naturally,” he admitted. “It’s literally impossible for such an executive structure to function as intended. Anyone who understands group dynamics at all would know that even were not such... forceful personalities involved. My father... stepped down from the Inner Council about four years ago, so he is not so much a leader as formerly, but he is still... respected and feared among the Council at every level. They rarely do anything important without his... tacit approval.” The last two words were stated with startling bitterness.

Buffy sat up straighter. The wheels in her head were turning. “So who are these ‘Inner Council’ guys?” she asked. “Who are our enemies... besides your dad... and who’s going to help us get around them?”

Giles reached into the bedside table, took out his glasses and put them on. He didn’t have any notes for the lesson he was about to give, but it made him feel a little more like a Watcher to wear them. He wanted to feel like a Watcher, like he was imparting knowledge and not bearing his soul. He’d done more than enough of that for one day. Of course, wearing his glasses also gave him a clearer view of Buffy’s bare breasts, which he tried to ignore. They’d done enough of _that_ for one day too. “The Seven Seats,” he explained, “go back to the earliest days of the Council in Britain They appear to have... antecedents going back several more centuries, but the details of anything that happened prior to the move from Rome to London in 349 are... sketchy at best and fictional at worst.”

“Uhmmm,” Buffy said a little impatiently, “not to be rude or anything, but my actual question was, ‘who are the seven guys on there now?’”

“I’m trying to tell you who they are,” Giles countered just as impatiently, “If you will just listen a moment.”

Buffy sighed. “Alright, so the Earth cooled and Rome fell. Then what?”

He gave her _that_ look. “In 349,” he continued crisply, refraining from pointing out that this was somewhat before the fall of Rome, “The Council of Seven Watchers came from Rome to London, along with the Slayer, who was called Flavia. Their names were Julian Hippolytus, Clementio Lucianus, Marcus Laurentus, Titus Facundus, Favian Gaudencio, Ezariah the Hebrew, Iakobus the Greek. The Seven Seats—with arguably two exceptions—represent the bloodlines of these seven Watchers and are usually held that way except for brief periods of transition.

“The Hippolytus and Lucianus Seats essentially merged in 849, the heirs for the two Seats being identically the same person, one Eberhard of Wyndenham. That became known as the Hippolytus or the Wyndham Seat, which is currently Held by Julian Wyndham-Pryce, a slightly younger contemporary of my father. A new Seat was created in 849 to keep the Council at seven members, and was filled by my ancestor Radbert Weregelder, the Gileses married into it in the eleventh century, so ‘our’ Seat as it were is commonly referred to as the Weregelder Seat or, believe it or not, the ‘New Seat,’ less commonly the Giles Seat.

“Since my father’s... retirement, it has been held by a second member of the Hippolytus Line, which is not in itself uncommon when the retiring member does not have an... erm acceptable replacement ready to step into his shoes. It’s usually the son or the nephew—or whomever the family determines to be next to represent them—of whichever of the Equals it’s thought will be next to step down or... pass on as is more common.”

“So he’s sort of holding your Seat for you until you’re... mature enough to handle it?” Buffy asked amused.

“Normally, that would be the case,” Giles explained. “Nor would it be strange for a man in his forties to be... bypassed in this way. Most members of the Inner Council are Seated in their fifties or sixties....”

“But...” Buffy coaxed.

“But the Wyndham-Pryce clan has flourished in the past few centuries, to the point in fact that they make up nearly a third of the Outer Council, not considering the fact that those of us claiming through five of the other six Lines all have some degree of Hippo-Lucianic ancestry. Meanwhile, the Weregelder Line has dwindled to my father and me.”

“They want the Seat back,” Buffy surmised.

“Some of them, certainly. In particular one of the larger cadet branches, the Robsons would like to have their own Seat. That’s been clear for more than a century. The Weregelder Seat is now held by Phillip Robson, who is fifty-one, and from that you may draw your own conclusions about how many friends we are likely to find on the Inner Council.”

Buffy seemed puzzled, “But why would your father resign then? I mean, he’s obviously still a player. Why wouldn’t he hold on to the Seat until you had a better chance of getting it?”

“Because he didn’t want me to have it,” he explained patiently. “Certainly not if I was just going to let the Line die, even less so now that...” his voice trailed off.

“Now that your kid is going to be my kid too,” she concluded.

“Precisely,” he admitted.

“So those are our enemies?” she asked, “this Wyndham-Pryce guy and his faithful sidekick Robson?”

Giles laughed. He could well imagine what Robson would say to that description. “Not by half,” he said. “In fact, Robson may turn out to be our biggest ally. We were quite good friends both at school and at University, actually, though he was several years ahead of me. We’ve always liked and respected one another. In fact, he’s one of very few in the Council who never treated me like a leper after... London and what followed. More importantly, he has a strong sense of honor. He won’t sit easily in that Seat if he feels it’s being withheld from our family unjustly. Now that I’m no longer a dead branch, he’ll feel duty bound to hold the Seat in trust and to advocate for our best interests, which will put him in an uncomfortable position with his own family as well as the Wyndham-Pryces proper. If it’s made clear to them that, under the right conditions, they could have our consent to retain the Seat with our blessings, we should have two solid votes on the Council for _almost_ anything.”

Buffy was thoughtful for a moment. “Is that really what you want to do?” she asked. “Trade your family’s whole big destined deal for—”

“Security for ourselves and freedom for our child?” he interjected.

Buffy cocked her head to one side. “You really didn’t want to be a Watcher, did you?”

“No,” he said seriously. “But it’s far too late for me; I am what I am. I want my child to have a choice. If he—or she—wants to become a Watcher, fine. He’ll have the heritage. What he won’t have is the pressure of keeping the Line going just to hold a Seat.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” she said, “the... dynasty thing, I mean.”

“Yes, I have,” he acknowledged, “that’s why I had decided... never to have children. I didn’t want to be responsible for putting anyone in that position.”

“So we’re counting this as a win/win,” she murmured thoughtfully, trying to get everything straight in her head. “They want the Seat and we don’t, not that they have to know that.”

“Precisely,” he agreed grimly.

“Alright,” she asked, “so who are the heads of the other five families?”

Giles smiled. He’d often thought the Council and the Mafia had a lot in common. “Well, there’s the Flavian Seat, the descendants of Marcus Laurentus and Flavia. They’ve been trying for at least a thousand years to call themselves the Laurentines, but it hasn’t stuck.”

“Wait a minute! Hold the phone!” Buffy said, “There’s a whole Line of Watchers descended from a Slayer? With a vote and everything?”

“There is,” he acknowledged grimly. “And of course, they have to be more Catholic than the Pope. They’ll vote to boil us in oil if they get half a chance.”

“Wow,” said Buffy, “the quality of hypocrisy is not strained.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, omitting the fact that the current crop of Flavians actually had a pretty valid reason to hate him personally. He felt some guilt, but then again, their position would have been exactly the same, and for all of the reasons that he was telling her, even if another Slayer and Watcher had been involved. “Their current Seat Holder, Michael Dunstan, is ninety-seven and has served—himself mostly—for fifty-four years. My grandmother hated him, and that’s saying something. She’d have been the first woman on the Inner Council if not for his leadership in opposition. Everyone keeps hoping he’ll die, for different reasons. He never has yet, but it really doesn’t matter. His son and grandson aren’t much better, so there’s no point holding our breath there.”

“The Facundians are represented by Milton Crowne. He’s relatively young, only sixty, and he’s served for eight years, so he has his own legs under him. Civilized man, compassionate, forward thinking, at least by Council standards. Probably the only one in the bunch who doesn’t take himself and his ‘dignity’ so God awfully seriously. I’d count him as a soft opposition, with potential to be persuaded. He doesn’t think a lot of Julian, understandably but unfortunately for us.

“Then there’s the Gaudencio Seat. They’re actually still called Gaudencio. Virgil Gaudencio holds the Seat currently. He’s seventy-four. Conscientious. Old-fashioned. He’ll vote on the side of tradition, which means against cutting us any slack. He’ll be mortally offended if he decides we’re selling our claim to a Seat for votes.”

“Which we are,” Buffy pointed out.

“If at all possible,” Giles agreed, “so we can count them as hard opposition along with the Flavians.

“Now the Ezarians are an odd bunch. In the first place, they won’t marry with any of the other Watching families. It’s not just because they’re Jewish either—which they still are, every one—because conversion makes no difference to them. In every generation, for the last two hundred years, exactly two of them have become Watchers; no more, no less. Before that, it was one and only one in an unbroken line, father to son, but then they had a close brush with a vacant Seat, which they filled with a twenty-two-year-old and very nearly split the Council getting him approved. To this day, they are the only Line that has held their Seat without an interregnum all the way back to the founder of their Line. In fact, we’ve always suspect they have their own records which go back much farther and could provide useful information about the history of the Council in Rome and perhaps earlier, but there’s no real proof of that.

“Their current Seat Holder is Adam Davidson. He’s a physicist. We don’t get many of those. Most Watchers tend to be men of letters, along with a few historians, philosophers and the like. But he says Physics is the ‘new mysticism’ which is the sort of thing you might expect from an Ezarian, actually. A good number of them have been mathematicians, which I will admit, has its mystical uses. Davidson is sixty-three, intelligent, generally fair-mined, stubbornly supports the Liberal Party no matter how irrelevant they are made by Labor and answers every question with another question if at all. I have absolutely no idea what he’s going to think of our situation or how he’s likely to vote on anything other than the next ten parliamentary elections.”

Buffy shrugged. “Call him a swing vote, then. Who’s left?”

“That would be the Travers Seat, held by Quentin Travers.” He said the name with both gravity and distaste. “They steadfastly insist that they are a continuation of the Jacobean Line, but it’s generally acknowledged among the rest of us that they are a new Line created in the fifteenth century. The family is descended one way or another from all of the non-Ezarian Lines, but has no stronger connection to Iakobus than any of the rest of us. They’re pretentious about other things too.”

“Quentin Travers,” Buffy repeated the name, “you mentioned him before.” He actually had, Giles realized with a grim nod. He must have been under a great deal of strain lately. He wasn’t usually in the habit of mentioning Travers. He was in no mood to talk about him now in fact, but if the subject was enemies on the Council, Travers was at the top of the list.

“So what’s his deal,” Buffy persisted, “Why does he get to lead the ‘I told you so’ chorus?” Giles sighed heavily. He turned away from her slightly and fiddled with his glasses, though he didn’t have anything handy to clean them with. It wasn’t that he wanted to hide his past from her... exactly. In fact, he had told her what happened in London, but he’d not put too fine a point on the worst of it, and he hadn’t corrected her when she’d chosen to interpret what he had said in an overly generous way.

“After... London,” he said finally, “after Randal’s death, I was a total wreck. The condition of his body and of our apartment was...” Giles shuddered involuntarily. “...not pretty.”

“Not a neat, puddley disappearing deal then?” Buffy asked.

“No,” he said, without looking at her. _It was easy enough to decide to do it, but when the blows actually started to land..._ “When I said _we_ killed Randal...” Giles admitted finally, _the sight, the sound, the_ _ **smell**_ _of it, blood splattering your skin like rain..._ “I killed him.” _You wanted to scream, but you didn’t dare to open your mouth._ “I cut his head off with an ax while the others held him down.” Buffy swallowed hard but held her tongue. _You didn’t have to open your mouth. It got in anyway. A living person can’t keep from breathing._ “And if it had been up to me alone to figure out what to do afterward,” he went on grimly, “we’d probably all be in prison still. Ethan of all people had the presence of mind to call my father for help. I had told him, told them all, things, secrets about the Council that they had no business knowing, so he knew they had the power to... cover up a murder.

“Needless to say, my father was horrified and extremely angry. He’d have liked to have written me off and left me to my fate. If he’d had another child or a sibling even, I believe he would have. But he couldn’t stomach seeing the family come to such an inglorious end. He went to Peter Travers, who was then the second most senior member of the Inner Council and generally acknowledged as ‘first among equals’ as the old expression goes. He proposed to do certain internal political favors for Travers in exchange for the Council’s assistance in extricating me from this predicament and probably to pay some sum of money to him as well, though I wasn’t privy to all of the details. He also proposed that I be permanently barred from becoming a Watcher or sitting on the Inner or Outer Council with the understanding that my future children would retain the eligibility to do so.

“Travers, to his credit, would have none of it on either score. He acted, as always, with integrity by his own lights, regardless of the results. He listened to the circumstances of Randal’s death and declared that, once the possession was irrevocable, there was nothing else we could have done. He agreed to help us dispose of Randal and prevent an investigation. In exchange, I was to submit to Council Discipline and rehabilitation for the abuse of dark power and disclosure of Council secrets, after which I would be expected to complete my training and apply to become a Watcher.

“Peter Travers... spoke to me before announcing this decision. He made me feel as though (quite apart from what my father was asking the Council to do for me) I was obligated to do and to be what I had always been destined to be, that I owed it to my father, to myself and particularly to my grandmother to become a Watcher and that it was the only way to atone for what I had done. I determined then and there to dedicate my life to that course of action, and to be just and upright in all things.” Giles sniffed contemptuously. “And then,” he added bitterly, “he handed me over to his son, Quentin.

“Quentin Travers was meant to be in charge of rehabilitating me, you see. Unfortunately, his theory of redemption was very... punishment based and his opinion of my residual value as a human being was very low. He put me to work doing things that... were not conducive to the improvement of my character or the peace of my soul.” Buffy had the distinct and unpleasant feeling that this was an understatement.

“You see the Council, the Watchers themselves, used to do their own... dirty work,” he confirmed, “whatever needed doing, but as the world has become more complex, if we did that now, we’d never have time to do anything else. Now there are agents of the Council who do these things, professional purpose trained... thugs, for the most part. But Quentin Travers and those of us who worked for him were part of an intermediate stage in that process of specialization.

“We were thugs, make no mistake about that. We threatened people, harmed people, took things that were needed and destroyed things that were not. But we were also young men who had been, or expected to be or at least had _once_ expected to be Watchers. We were erudite, articulate, introspective thugs. Such men do not sleep well at night. If they do, one has to fear that they have gone beyond the hope of redemption.” _Redemption, my good man Jack? ‘What? Drawn and talk of peace?’_ “And I certainly saw some of that in those years.” _I know what you’ve been sent to do, Rupert. Who do you think they’ll send for you?_ “I didn’t want to end up that way. I knew I had to get out from under Travers if I was ever to begin to function as a moral human being again, let alone a Watcher.

“I went to my father and told him...” _Rupert how did you get in here? Good God is that blood on your hands?_ “...some of the worst things that I had been required to do.” _Yes it is father. It’s Charles Font’s blood. I murdered him an hour ago._ “I tried to tell him what it was doing to me...” _Am I supposed to be shocked by this theatrical display, Rupert?_ “...what I was becoming.” _You’ve had blood on your hands for at least two years. Now you tell me you’ve killed one of our own people. What do you want, pity?_ “I wanted him to save me, to tell me that Watcher or no I was his son and that, if this was what the Council required of me, I was within my rights to refuse them and go my own way with his blessing. Instead he told me to go back and continue working for Travers until he told me I was ready to stop. I knew by then that that would never happen. I was already right where I belonged as far as Quentin Travers was concerned.

“So I talked it over with... with some others of Travers’ second chance crew. We decided to take matters into our own hands. We went directly to the Inner Council, denounced Quentin’s use of his position to keep his charges permanently in a state of seeking rather than receiving redemption and demanded to be either enrolled as Watchers or released to go about our business. To our great surprise, we were freed from Quentin’s supervision and he was disciplined. We were not enrolled as Watchers at once, but we were all put back into regular training and most of us were enrolled eventually.

“Apparently Quentin had exceeded the scope of the Council’s authorization with regard to... some of the tasks he was giving us to do or at least some members felt that he had, or said they did, after the fact. He has always maintained that they were simply sorry to see the results of what they had clearly authorized. It was... a matter of interpretation, I suppose. He’s never forgiven me of course. He’ll take any opportunity he can to see me suffer for my crimes, real and imagined, especially those which he ordered me to undertake.

“His initial inclination will be to demand that I be stripped of my designation as Watcher and my membership in the Outer Council at once and that the Council do everything it its power to see that I am prosecuted and deported. Fortunately, he also despises my father, for reasons that have never been quite clear to me. I believe he would consider his whole life had been worthwhile if only he could publicly humiliate my father and insure that no Giles ever sits on the Inner Council again. That being the case, if we approach him the right way, he could actually be a yes vote for our being allowed to remain here in Sunnydale together and to be married in front of God and everyone as it were. He’s also the first cousin of Julian Wyndham-Pryce, incidentally, so he’d even have a plausible excuse for voting in our favor.”

“So...” Buffy summarized, “the enemies of our relatives are our friends... but they hate us?”

“More or less,” Giles agreed. The apology in his tone didn’t quite seem to go with his words. She had the sense that he was seeking her forgiveness for something he _hadn’t_ told her. “Travers and Dunstan are near mortal enemies,” he added, “In part because of ... those matters for which he was disciplined in 1975. I’m not sure how that helps us, but it can’t hurt.”

Buffy looked into Giles’ eyes to find something very near the same miserable, longing look he’d been in the habit of giving her before their engagement. He was afraid of losing her, she realized. She almost laughed. He should know better than that. She took both of his hands in hers and kissed him very deliberately on the lips. “Whatever you did back then,” she said, “the past is the past. I don’t care about that.”

He pulled her to him and tucked her head under his chin, which was something, she was starting to realize, he did when he didn’t want her to see his face, when he was overwhelmed and embarrassed by his feelings. She held him tighter, trying to let him know by her embrace that it was okay to open up, that he was safe with her. But he was through confiding. He gave her a gentle squeeze and released her.

“I think we’d better be getting back to work.” He pointed out. “The sun will be setting in a few hours. If... Angelus and his minions turned all of those forty... young people Friday night, about a dozen of them should be up by now.” He stood up and dressed as he was talking. “They may well decide that they’ve increased their ranks enough for another major strike. Certainly they’ll be out hunting. The more of them there are, the more victims they will need to keep up their strength. Kendra should be arriving tomorrow, but we shall have to patrol tonight. I don’t see any way around it. We’re only lucky there were no major incidents last night.”

Buffy sat pensively for a moment. “I agree with you,” she said, “but I don’t know how I’m going to handle that with Mom. There’s no way of knowing when she’s going to call to check in, and she’s going to be pissed enough about the table thing without being told that I decided not to do what she said after all.”

Giles sighed, “Well, we can replace the table easily enough, but you’re right. It is a decidedly inconvenient time to have to tell your mother that her priorities are wrong and we’ve chosen to ignore them.”

Buffy stood up and started getting dressed. “It’s too bad I don’t have a cell phone like Cordelia’s. Then I could just have the calls forwarded and Mom would never know the difference.”

“That’s brilliant!” Giles exclaimed.

“Except for the fact that I don’t have one,” Buffy pointed out skeptically.

His brow furrowed slightly. “You can get one at the mall, can’t you? They can connect service the same day, I suppose?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Wow, really, I can have a cell phone? Can I get a teeny-tiny one with a spy camera and unlimited calling to everywhere?” He looked uncomfortable. 

“What?” Buffy asked.

“I’m just... not sure I ought to be in charge of telling you what kind of a phone you can or can’t have?” He said. “We are meant to be partners.”

Buffy laughed. “I’ll try to control the impulse to defer to your manly authority,” she teased. “But trust me, unless you want to have to file bankruptcy after our divorce, you’re the budget guy.”

 ****

“What the hell are they thinking?” Bob worried aloud, as Ron walked up behind him. “Is this some kind of a warning? Some kind of a threat? A joke? Are they taunting us?”

Ron smiled with grim amusement at the butcher paper packages, the way they were arranged. “I don’t think so,” he said. Most vampires weren’t big readers. But then, most vampires were not big planners either. The vampires you had the most trouble with were not most vampires. “I think it’s a gift,” he explained, “And a very thoughtful one.”

For a moment, the Sheriff’s ironically cheerful expression was entirely too familiar to the Police Chief. It filled him with fear and disgust and then with guilt and self-doubt. He was never sure if the Wilkinses were the only thing protecting this sorry town from the fires of Hell or if they were one more thing it could really use protecting from.

“They’re offering a cease fire,” Ron suggested seeing Bob’s doubtful expression, “They want to call this all the work of some psychopath and go back to the way things were before.”

“Can we trust them?” Bob asked.

Ron shrugged. “We can trust that they are even less eager for a mob scene than we are. Call the _Sun-Times_. Tell them, strictly unofficially, that the bodies of most of the missing kids have been found and that we have a suspect either under surveillance or in custody.”

“And who would that be?” Bob asked.

Ron shrugged. “I’ll know him when I see him,” he said, but he already had someone in mind. If things worked out, he should be able to give a powerful friend of _his_ a gift he’d been wanting for some time.

****

“Hello?” Cordelia answered cheerfully. It was an unknown number, but it was local.

“It’s me,” Buffy said.

“Oh,” said Cordelia, annoyed. A deep, theatrical sigh followed. “I suppose you’re going to beg me to give poor Xander another chance?”

“What? No. Cordelia, I have bad news.” Buffy was sounding all serious. Cordelia tensed a little. “Your mom said you were at the mall, which I am too. Can we meet somewhere and talk?”

“Did something happen to Xander?” Cordelia demanded. She felt terrified but sounded angry. She was angry, with herself for giving a damn.

“No,” Buffy assured her. “He’s fine, I mean, you know, other than beating himself up and moaning about how you’re never going to speak to him again.”

“Good,” said Cordelia firmly.

“Where are you?” Buffy repeated. “I’m in front of the cell phone place.”

Cordelia was starting to get annoyed again. “Look, Buffy,” she said, “I don’t want to see you right now. I don’t know if I want to see any of you ever again. So whatever it is, just tell me alright?”

“You read in the paper about the ‘twenty missing kids’?” Buffy asked.

“Yeah,” said Cordelia boredly.

“There’s actually, forty, all killed by vampires,” Buffy went on. “They’re keeping the names quiet, but Giles got a list from the school.”

“That’s your deal,” Cordelia said, “I’m out of the undead play group.”

“Harmony’s on the list,” Buffy told her. “Cordelia, she’s dead.”

Cordelia didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she laughed with forced cheerfulness. “Harmony’s not dead,” she said with deliberate disbelief. “She just doesn’t want to show her face after making such a fool of herself.”

“Her _parents_ reported her missing,” Buffy pointed out. “Why isn’t she home in her room hiding and plotting revenge? Where else would she go?”

“She’s probably just at Devon’s,” said Cordelia dismissively.

“After going to the dance with Mitch? Anyway, I’m sure they checked there. Cordelia, I’m telling you, Harmony is dead. So are thirty-nine other kids, by the way, including Mitch and Tiffany and a lot of others you probably know better than I do.”

“So why are you telling _me_ this?” Cordelia demanded, her tone suddenly snapping from casual to harsh.

“I just thought you should know,” Buffy said gently, seeing Cordelia’s pain and confusion for what it was. “Most of them were probably turned,” she added, “So I wouldn’t invite anyone over until you have a chance to see them in person, in daylight.”

“Alright,” said Cordelia, her voice subdued, almost blank.

“Are you sure you don’t want some company?” Buffy asked. “I’m supposed to meet Giles about sunset, but I still need to eat before that.”

Cordelia sighed. “I guess, I could meet you at the food court,” she said, feigning boredom again. They ate and talked for more than an hour. Buffy mostly listened, while Cordelia went on about the inconvenience of auditioning new cheerleaders to replace the ones who’d ‘gone and gotten themselves eaten’, about the baseball team’s prospects without Mitch, about whether the school paper would be less depressing without Freddy Ivers’ growing influence as assistant editor; about everything except her own feelings of grief and loss. Finally she paused for breath and said, “So how is Xander? Do you know he had the nerve to leave me fifty messages asking me to call him back at _Willow’s_ house?”

Buffy made a sort of apologetic face. “That’s probably my fault,” she admitted. “I had to go home and wait by the phone to keep Mom from freaking out again—which I hopefully have that problem solved—” she added, holding up her new cell phone, “so I asked him to stay with Willow and—oh wow, you missed that whole thing. I’ll have to catch you up on all the latest news.”

She did. It was Cordelia’s turn to listen and (at least twice) to be genuinely shocked. “A rat?” she said incredulously when she heard of Amy’s transformation, then philosophically, “well, it suits her, really.” But the real stunner was Buffy’s engagement. Cordelia seemed more pleasantly scandalized than happy for her, but she insisted on seeing the ring. Buffy held out her hand and braced herself for the critique. It was not your typical sparkly kind of diamond, but it was very Giles, and she loved it.

“Hummmm,” said Cordelia appreciatively, pulling Buffy’s hand closer for a more thorough inspection. “That’s at least two carats. I think a little more. Good color too,” she added, rummaging in her purse, “at least a G.” Buffy folded her hands self-consciously in her lap, right over left. “Not the flashiest cut,” Cordelia went on, producing an honest-to-God jeweler’s loop, “but it highlights the clarity, which is looking pretty good.” Buffy reluctantly gave Cordelia back her hand. She felt like _she_ was being appraised. “I can’t find any flaws!” Cordelia declared wonderingly.

“It’s flawless,” Buffy said, “He told me so.” She’d kind of assumed that was the usual state of diamonds. Evidently not.

“Oh wow!” said Cordelia, her eyes as wide as saucers. Buffy pulled her hand back, feeling uncomfortable. “Buffy,” said Cordelia, awestruck, “that’s a forty thousand dollar ring.”

“Really?” Buffy asked skeptically. She kind of hoped not. If so, she might have to feel a little guilty. He’d said, ‘take all that I have,’ and it had been a romantic thing to say, but she was having trouble taking it quite that literally.

“Well I’m no jeweler,” Cordelia admitted, “but it’s in the ballpark, though God only knows why anyone would set a rock like that in silver. I mean, it’s gorgeous, but they should have used platinum.”

“I think it might be sort of ancient,” Buffy said, “plus silver has a lot going on mystically speaking. He got the ring from his grandmother, who was a Watcher too, and no telling where she got it.”

“Well, wherever it came from,” Cordelia said confidently, “It’s a good sign. Whatever promises he’s making you, he means them.”

“Of course he means them,” Buffy said, almost offended. “I don’t need a ring to know that.”

Cordelia shrugged, “Maybe not, but it doesn’t hurt to have a little solid confirmation.”

By the time the two girls were done talking, it was so close to sunset that Buffy asked Cordelia to drive her to the cemetery. Buffy was still a little worried about Cordelia. She had to be feeling more than she was showing about both Xander and Harmony. At least things were okay between the two of them. Buffy hadn’t realized how much she was coming to think of Cordelia as a friend, and to rely on her as one of a limited number. “Thanks for the ride,” she said, with the correct amount of polite cheerfulness. Hopefully still sounding reasonably casual she added, “You have my new number, so call me whenever, you know, if you want to talk.”

Cordelia gave her a look. “I’m fine, Buffy,” she said. “I’m a cold hearted bitch, remember?”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Buffy grinned, “just don’t say I never offered.”

Giles came around the side of the mausoleum and up to Buffy’s side of the car. “No activity so far,” he assured her. “Though it’s just now starting to get dark enough to expect something. Of course, they have other ways in and out as you know, but this has the best combination of privacy and ready street access. Good evening, Cordelia,” he added politely. “I wouldn’t stay too long if I were you. Things could get a bit... messy around here soon. At least I hope so. I brought the cross bow and about thirty rounds,” he said, turning his attention back to Buffy as she got out of the car and walked up to put her arms around him. “So hopefully I’ll be of some use to you.”

Buffy took both of his hands in hers and kissed him on the lips. “I can always find a use for you,” she assured him.

“I think that’s my cue to leave,” said Cordelia. “Good luck with the killing and everything.”

When she was gone, Buffy and Giles melted into one another’s arms and kissed a lot more like they meant it. “We are meant to be watching for vampires,” he reminded her, with her ear partly in his mouth.

“I have my eye on the door,” she assured him, opening her eyes just in time to see the door swing open. He heard it at the same time. They disentangled themselves and turned to look at their potential opponents. They were positioned on the flank of the entrance so that they were basically looking at the backs and partial right side profiles of the vampires as they emerged, but they backed into the shadow of the nearby trees for a little more visual cover. Two figures emerged. One was a tall, classically handsome male with a dignified bearing and a full head of wavy wheat field colored hair. He wore a tan sport coat with the air of someone for whom such a garment is indeed casual wear. He looked about twenty-five, but seemed much older. He had his arm around a young African-American girl with a head full of long, thin braids. Lisa Courtlander, Buffy realized. A girl she barely knew, but did know. Lisa was in the marching band. Trombone, tuba? Something like that. Her name had been on the list of course, but seeing her here like this was still shocking and slightly painful. It was always a shame to see someone die that young.

Except it was pretty hard to remember to feel sorry for her. The two vampires were talking quietly and laughing loudly, leaning into one another as they walked in unison. It looked for all the world like a first date that was going really, really well. “There’s the very thing we need!” said Mr. Sophisticated in one of those hard to place upper class type accents from a past so past it probably really was another country. It made Buffy think ‘English’ and ‘Southern’ at the same time. He had his eye on Giles’ new car.

“Get between them and the mausoleum,” Giles whispered, pulling back on his crossbow. The vampires turned in response to his whispering, even as Buffy sprinted to do as directed. Giles loosed his bolt at the heart of the gentleman vampire, but he dodged aside. Lisa fled towards the safety of the crypt. She found Buffy blocking her path and fell helplessly upon her stake before she could turn aside. Buffy, covered in Lisa dust, was just about to come to grips with her companion when Giles shouted, “Behind you!”

Buffy sprang sideways and whirled to face four more vamps—who had evidently been keeping watch in the mausoleum—along with her original opponent. A bolt zinged from Giles’ bow causing a large male to explode into dust and ash. Buffy quickly staked a young female (his girlfriend maybe) who had turned to gape at the sight of his demise. The others reacted better. Of the two remaining guards, one rushed Giles to prevent him from reloading; the other slammed as hard as he could into Buffy’s lower body, knocking her off her feet. Mr. To-the-manor-born pitched in against Buffy and did the aristocracy some credit. By the time she’d dusted his subordinate, they’d traded some blows they’d both still be feeling in the morning. Buffy didn’t have time to battle such a worthy opponent to the death right now. Flunky number four had Giles on the ground and was getting the best of him. She gave His Lordship a quick kick in the teeth, dodged his counter attack and somersaulted away to render aid. Quickly staking Giles’ assailant in the back, she picked up his cross bow.

When the Slayer rounded on Edwards, bow in hand, he decided discretion was the better part of valor after all. He was calculating the distance back to the crypt, feeling pretty sure he could make it, when the Slayer’s cell phone rang. Just for a split second, her mind and her eye were drawn to it. Edwards rushed her, knocking the bow from her hand and slamming her to the ground. She punched him in the face as he landed on top of her, scoring his flesh once more with that damned diamond. He guessed he had the infamous ‘librarian’ to thank for that. Speaking of, the devil was getting to his feet. Edwards felt mighty exposed with his back sticking up where any half trained mortal could put a stake in him. Fighting the Slayer was no picnic all by itself. He had her arms pretty well occupied and was mostly avoiding her legs, but every time he tried to bite her, he got a pretty solid head butt to the face. Seeing his opening, the Watcher was coming towards them, stake at the ready. Edwards managed to deflect him with a kick to the torso, but he had to take so much of his weight off of the Slayer to do it that she was able to flip him around and fling him off of her. He landed closer to the crypt than to the Slayer. She was ignoring him for the time being, rushing to assist her future husband. Edwards was tempted to have another go at her, but realistically, he knew this was his last chance to walk away. He fled into the mausoleum and down the tunnels, sounding the general alarm, he hoped loudly enough to convince the Slayer that reinforcement was imminent.

Buffy found Giles crumpled on the ground. He was conscious, not badly bleeding and had no obvious broken bones. He was mostly stunned she decided. “I think you’ve done your share for tonight,” she said. “Come on, let’s you get out of here before he comes back with reinforcements.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said with injured dignity, getting to his feet. “I’m perfectly alright. A little bruised in the ribcage perhaps but certainly not done for the night.” Noting the blood on her hands, he tossed her a handkerchief out of his breast pocket.

“Assuming your head doesn’t crack open again where it’s still screwed together with those little pin thingies,” she pointed out, wiping the blood off her hands and, as much as she could off her ring. “It just now occurred to me that when your doctor said you could ‘resume normal activities’ this wasn’t what he had in mind—and wow, thanks for the ring by the way, this thing is better than brass knuckles. Definitely a girl’s best friend.”

“That’s probably the case,” he admitted. “About my less than perfect skull, that is, but I still feel we ought to do something more to prevent a general slaughter.”

Buffy sighed, “Well whatever else we do, I’d better call Mom back before she hauls off and drives down here. Tell you what. You sit in the car with the bow. When they come out, I’ll fight them, and if it gets too hairy I’ll jump in and we can drive off.”

“Fair enough,” Giles agreed. He spent the next half hour watching the motionless crypt entrance while Buffy had a surreal argument with her mother about how unfair it was that she was stuck at home rather than out fighting vampires. After fifteen minutes, she’d gotten tired of pacing and sat down next to him in the front seat. It was his considered professional opinion that no more vampires were coming out of the crypt tonight. Buffy could probably do more good patrolling the streets and allies down town, something she was better suited to doing solo.

Evidently the Summers women had moved on to the topic of the table, because he heard Buffy say crossly, “I didn’t say _he’d_ pay for it, I said, _we’d_ pay for it.... No that’s not the same thing, or okay, maybe it is but it’s not like you’re trying to make it sound.... It’s a fifty-fifty kind of deal.... Well I kind of think having a baby and going to school and killing demons is my half of it, Mom.... Yes it is, and it’s a done deal too, which is the part you don’t seem to be getting.” Giles tried to signal Buffy to soften her tone, that she was overplaying her hand. Charades was not her game. “Look Whatever! I’ve got to go, Mom,” she said. “We can talk about it when you get back.... No I’m not going out. I have homework, a lot of it actually,” she said in a tone of sudden realization. “Look I really have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hung up the phone and looked at him, “What?” she demanded, exasperated.

“Why do you have to talk to her like that?” he asked, rankled.

“Excuse me?” said Buffy taken aback, clearly offended.

“‘A done deal,’” he fumed. “That’s bloody brilliant! Why not just dare her call the authorities to keep us apart?”

“Wow,” Buffy grumbled, “I feel so loved and supported.”

“Well it’s not as though I _want_ us to need her approval,” he pointed out acerbically, “But as we are required by law to have it, I thought just for fun we might actually try not further alienating the one person on Earth who can give it to us by arguing over trivial things and disrespecting her authority!”

“Are you going to talk to me like this for the rest of my life?” Buffy demanded.

“Like what?” Giles shot back crossly.

“Like you’re the king of all reason and logic and I’m too stupid and irrational to be tolerated by anyone but your sainted martyrry self!”

Giles sighed, feeling his exasperation dissipate a little. “Yes, probably,” he admitted sheepishly, “from time to time.”

“Well it sucks,” said Buffy sullenly, laying her head against his chest.

“I know,” Giles admitted apologetically, running his hand through her hair. In fact, every woman he had ever been with had said so, some of them much less kindly. In this instance, indeed in most instances, he was _right_ of course, but that clearly wasn’t the issue as far as Buffy was concerned. He had been right and lonely for many long years. He had to do better this time. He couldn’t afford to alienate Buffy by arguing over trivial things—or important ones—in a way that she found disrespectful. “You’re... right on the merits, of course,” he conceded aloud, “In your argument with your mother, I mean. We are a ‘done deal,’ and the ‘deal’ is fifty-fifty. I don’t ever mean to suggest differently than that.”

“But it’s not about who’s right,” Buffy concluded, following his chain of thought, seeing the obvious parallel.

“Precisely,” Giles said. “How your mother _feels_ about acceding to the inevitable has everything to do with not only obtaining her consent but having her cooperation and goodwill afterward. She needs to be made to feel that she’s choosing what’s best for you under the circumstances, rather than being backed into a corner and left without a choice.”

Buffy sighed. “It’s been almost an hour. I’m calling it.”

“They certainly aren’t coming out this way,” Giles agreed, “At least as long as we’re still sitting here.”

“Maybe there aren’t as many of them as we think,” Buffy mused. “I mean, there was that big bluff about calling for reinforcements. It’s like he was actually scared I’d to follow him down into the depths and kill them all.”

“Or possibly he was calling for more guards to be set inside the mausoleum and they are there waiting for you now,” Giles pointed out. “Anyway, realistically, it only takes three or four in a tight corner.”

“Especially if they all fight like Gentleman George,” Buffy agreed.

“And we certainly know of at least two more that skilled or better,” Giles pointed out.

“So no going down there tonight,” Buffy agreed. “Do we think they have another group going out hunting another way?”

“Possibly,” Giles mused. “Perhaps you’d better do a sweep of the downtown area, just to see that there are no more mass roundups of victims until _our_ reinforcements arrive tomorrow.”

“Agreed,” Buffy said. Giles put the car in gear.

From the entrance of the crypt, Spike, Edwards, Harmony and five new guards watched them drive away. “Does this mean we can go hunting now?” Harmony asked.

“No,” said Spike crossly. “In fact,” he added, turning on Edwards, “I thought I had made it fairly clear that no one was to go out hunting this evening, that we were to conserve our strength. Did I not?”

“We weren’t planning on hunting,” Edwards informed him. “I just thought I would take a... young lady for a drive.”

“You mean you broke security just to have a go at the black chick in a more _romantic_ setting?” Spike demanded.

“To put it in the coarsest possible language,” Edwards retorted, “yes.”

Spike noticed he was wearing his human features. It seemed like he was finally getting his rocks back for the first time since they’d moved into the Church, and about damn time. He guessed he knew now what Edwards needed to get his blood up. You can take the gentleman out of the plantation.... Still there was no need letting his subordinate get out of line, even if he was glad to see he had the spirit for it. “Well I can get, much coarser than that, mate,” Spike pointed out coolly. “But the point is, when I tell you to stay in, you bloody damned well better stay in. I don’t give second warnings.”

“Understood,” Edwards assured him levelly. He was glad to see Spike was up to taking a firm hand without losing his temper. It was a good sign for his recovery, even if it did come in the form of a perfectly serious threat to Edwards’ own life.

“So how long are we going to hide in this hole from stupid Buffy Summers?” Harmony whined. “Why can’t we go burn her house down?”

“Do be a love and shut up,” said Spike, ignoring her questions entirely. “In fact,” he added cheerfully, “You’ve just been promoted from useless pain in my ass to crypt guard. Stay here.”

“What?” said Harmony, shocked, “stay here alone all by myself? With these guys?” Her indignant, dismissive gesture took in the five vamp guards. Two or three growled in response and another rolled her eyes. “I want to stay with you,” Harmony pouted.

There was something about the _way_ she pouted, something about the longing in her whiny little voice. She angered him; she annoyed and frustrated him, and yet... Bloody Hell! He should stake her, Spike told himself, he should stake her right now. He wanted to, God he wanted to! But not in the way that would get rid of her. “I don’t need this from you,” he said aloud, slapping her in the face. “Just... do what you’re told!” She looked back at him hurt and resentful, lower lip trembling. He wanted to bite it, to taste her blood... whilst fucking her very, very hard. Instead, he turned and strode away, Edwards at his heel, with every outward appearance of indifference. Drusilla was Drusilla was Drusilla and sex was just sex. He didn’t want there to be anything in between. No one but his black goddess was worth that kind of suffering, worth even the inconvenience. It was nothing, what he thought he felt about this girl, a side effect of grief. It was what humans called rebounding. If he ignored it, it would go away.

Edwards, he noticed, was trying very, very hard not to smile at him behind his hand. “What have you got to be so smug about, Mate?” Spike challenged when they were a few yards down the tunnel. “It was you and your jungle fever that lost us five good vamps this time.”

Edwards soured a little but said nothing. He didn’t feel like explaining himself to someone who couldn’t possibly understand. When Zanya was better, he told himself, they might try living among humans again. He might just touch up the dates on his old credentials and get a job teaching night classes at a college somewhere. At least in that world _almost_ everyone tended to remember that it was nearly the twenty-first century. Hell, maybe he’d even try living on butcher’s blood, with an occasional pint of the good stuff from the Red Cross. After two-hundred-seventy-five years, he was getting awfully tired of being a monster. He didn’t want to be the thing that went ‘bump’ in the night, outside in the dark and the cold and the wind and the rain as it stumbled over hidden obstacles, and silently nursed its injuries alone. He wanted back inside.

****

“Oh... oh... oh God! God that feels so good!” the young man half gasped half shouted. Buffy turned around and started tiptoeing back out of the ally, realizing that what was going on on the other side of the dumpster didn’t sound life threatening after all.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Do it! Harder! Faster! Don’t stop!” Buffy froze. She’d know _that_ voice anywhere, and under any circumstances.

“God Tiffany!” she said, casually pulling the dumpster out of the way, using sarcasm to fight her embarrassment. “Do you _know_ how disgusting it is when you play with your food like that?”

“Hey! Get the hell out of here!” Blayne shouted, angry, mortified, backing away from and (yuck) out of Tiffany. He yanked his pants up hurriedly as Tiffany did the same. “Jesus, Buffy, what are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Saving you, yet again, from the _same_ fate worse than and including death,” she explained with genuine annoyance and feigned boredom.

Blayne looked confused for a moment. Then, Tiffany growled low and menacing and advanced on Buffy, fangs bared. “Oh no!” he moaned, backing away, putting his hands over his head, “Oh God no! Not another one!”

Buffy smiled at the snarling demon, stake in hand, prepared to do battle. She knew, of course, that it was not actually the girl that had spent the last week stirring the gossip cauldron about her sex life, but it didn’t know that. “Wow,” she said, “I always heard you would put out for dinner, but sheesh!”

“At least he’s still fresh,” Tiffany retorted. “I think yours is past his expiration date.”

“Well I’m not planning on eat—” Buffy blushed, “Well... clearly I didn’t think that sentence through. Screw it, let’s fight.” She grabbed Tiffany by the shirt collar with her left hand and slammed her against the dumpster. She thrust the stake towards Tiffany’s heart with her right, but the undead cheerleader caught her on the ear with a high kick, dodged out of the way and sprang up onto the dumpster. Wrong move. Buffy jerked it away from the side of the building just as Tiffany was about the leap from it up the wall to the roof. Instead, her modified arc brought her crashing down at Buffy’s feet. She was only stunned for a moment, but it was her last.

Buffy stood, brushing the dust from her clothes, and looked around for Blayne. She found him huddled against a wall in a near fetal crouch, weeping, which pretty much told her she wasn’t going to be able to use any of the good jokes she’d just thought of about the porno version of final destination. His distress was genuine, pitiable and reasonable under the circumstances. Every day in Buffy’s world was the worst day of someone else’s life. “Come on,” she said gently, extending her hand to him. “Get up. I’ll walk you home.”

Overall, vamp activity was surprisingly low. Buffy headed home about eleven o’clock, not finding anymore slaying to be done. She was actually pretty tired. She hadn’t gotten her evening nap, which she realized, she was getting used to. Giles was as surprised as she was about the lack of blood running in the streets. “Are you sure she wasn’t part of some larger raiding party?” he asked, as he laid out his cloths for the morning. “She was on the list. She should have been one of their group.”

“Trust me,” Buffy assured him, shrugging into one of his pajama tops, “what I walked in on was definitely a private party. Five more minutes and it would have been triple X dinner theater. Tiffany wasn’t working, she was playing. And there wasn’t another vamp on the streets. I didn’t even sense any from a distance. It was like they were in full lockdown mode and she just... wandered away from the nest.”

“Well I hope you’re right,” Giles said worriedly, fussing with the cuffs on his own pajamas. “One quiet night may be just the luck we need, but it seems almost too much to ask.”

“I’m more worried about what they need so much time to work on,” Buffy countered, running a brush through her hair, “especially at the First Church of the Hellmouth. I mean, they hate that place. There has to be some kind of bad magic brewing.”

“Well, I don’t disagree,” Giles admitted, “I’ve been consulting my books most of the evening...”

“I’m shocked,” Buffy grinned, turning down the covers.

“... _But_ I haven’t found anything particularly illuminating.”

“Also shocking,” she said, utterly deadpan this time, getting into bed.

He gave her a mildly put upon look. “The _good_ news,” he went on in a long-suffering kind of way, “is that there are no particularly auspicious signs, portents or opportunities for anyone trying to reopen the Hellmouth at this time. The bad news is that there are any number of dark and dangerous rituals for which the Hellmouth is an ideal location. Considering that the full moon is coming up, I’m concentrating on rituals that require that lunar phase. I have a few ideas, but I need to get to the library early in the morning to cross check some things.”

“Can you drop me at Mom’s on your way?” Buffy asked as he climbed into bed. “I have piles of homework that I ought to at least take a stab at getting half done before school.”

Giles felt guilty. “I’ve been keeping you from your studies this weekend,” he fretted.

Buffy shrugged. “I could have done it last night,” she pointed out, neglecting to mention that she’d gone to bed at eight o’clock exhausted. “I just didn’t. Anyway,” she yawned, “let the ghosts and demons have some of the credit.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “Still, it’s something we want to look to in future. I can’t have you letting your school work slide on my account.”

Buffy smiled, “because given my stellar record up to now, any blemishes on my transcripts will be totally your fault.”

Giles smiled back a little sheepishly. “Would you believe I’m actually fighting the urge to apologize for blaming myself?” he said.

Buffy threw her arms around him and laughed. “God, I love you!” she said, snuggling into his embrace, and giving him a peck on the lips.

Giles held her close, grinning. “God only knows why,” he said.

****

Edwards didn’t know how Zanya could scold him so effectively without saying a word, almost without looking at him, but by the wee hours of the morning he felt well and truly scolded. It was a talent she had always possessed, and as always, his guilt wouldn’t allow him to simply leave when he knew she was not ready for him to. Instead, they pretended to ignore each other. He poured over his books and notes related to the ritual while she fussed relentlessly over Angel. Always her best trick. If ever he displeased her as a boy, she would suddenly be much too busy giving his sister a bath or tidying the nursery or brushing out her daughters’ hair to sit and watch him play with his tin soldiers or to listen to tales of his heroic adventures in the woods beyond the old cow pond.

“I just wanted to escape for a few hours,” he said finally. She glared at him but said nothing. Hours continued to pass in silence.

Sometime after dawn, Zanya smiled. “You can never escape,” she said. “You belong to me.”

****

Xander knew when he heard the tires squeal to a halt who had pulled up beside him. He cautioned himself against being too hopeful. “Hey, Cordy,” he said, giving her his best smile.

“Get in,” she said forcefully. “We need to get a few things straight.” He got in, feeling more than a little apprehensive. ‘Getting a few things strait’ didn’t sound like a _lot_ of fun, but it was clearly a step up from leaving her fifty groveling phone messages a day. “Why isn’t Willow driving you to school?” Cordelia asked crossly.

He shrugged. “She had to go in early to get ready for a class or something. You know how I hate spending any more time there than I have to.”

“Oh,” she said noncommittally. There was a long pause.

“Listen, Cor...” Xander began reluctantly.

“I’m going first,” she announced. “I’m really mad at you Xander!”

“Yeah, I—”

“Shut up, I’m not through talking,” Cordelia cut in. “I have a right to be mad at you. You tried to do something really rotten to me, way rottener than I did to you and way more intentional. I should just break up with you and never speak to you again, but since I’m in love with you, that would just be punishing myself, and I’m already the injured party here. So here’s what I’ve decided to do. I’m going to keep being your girlfriend, but I’m going to be kind of a bitch to you for the next couple of months and you’re going to be nice to me about it, got that?”

Xander grinned. “So what you’re saying is everything’s back to normal?”

“That’s not funny,” Cordelia said, but the corners of her mouth turned up just a little when she said it. “Anyway,” she added, “that’s not the most important thing we have to talk about.”

Xander sharpened his attention. “It’s not?” he asked.

“No,” said Cordelia, “this vampire situation is. It’s way beyond out of control. We need to be doing more than backing Buffy up once in a while and helping with research.”

“Like what?” Xander asked.

“Like training,” said Cordelia. “Like actually fighting them. I mean, I know Buffy has the strength and skill and all that, and good for her, but she’s not always around, and there’s only one of her. She may think she can handle an army by herself, but she can’t. Besides, it’ not like you need Slayer strength to shoot a cross bow.” Xander was quiet for a moment. He really couldn’t fault her logic, but he was kind of surprised by her sudden enthusiasm for slaying. He told her so. Cordelia gave him a level, deadly serious look. “They’re changing the rules,” she said. “They’ve killed too many people I know, and I haven’t been able to stop them. It makes me feel helpless. I don’t do helpless.”

At school everyone was buzzing about the ‘serial killer’ whose victims had been found over the weekend. All other news and gossip was temporarily eclipsed. The police were fueling speculation by withholding as much information as possible about both the victims and the suspect. Even the number of victims was open to debate with estimates ranging from fifteen to fifty or more. School personnel refused to speak on the subject at all. “What I don’t get,” said Cordelia as they walked into the library, “is how no one notices the very obvious fact that serial killers are only supposed to kill one or two people at a time.”

Xander shrugged, “I guess he’s supposed to be more of a box set kind of guy.”

“Well... somebody clearly isn’t getting enough sleep at night,” Cordelia said, inclining her head slightly in the direction of the front reading table. Giles was snoring softly with his glasses pushed up on his forehead and his cheek pillowed against an open book.

“God! What does she see in him?” Xander wondered aloud. Cordelia gave him a withering look. It was the wrong thing to say he realized, especially while he was still on romantic probation. “I’m not... jealous,” he tried to explain, “I just...” Cordelia’s expression told him he was only digging the hole deeper. Against every instinct he had, he shut up. Going against every instinct he had usually worked pretty well for him where Cordelia was concerned.

“He put a rock on her hand the size a Gibraltar,” she said after a long moment, apparently in response to his earlier question.

Xander successfully resisted the impulse to point out that Buffy didn’t care about things like that. “Yeah, I guess, those two crazy kids are getting pretty serious,” he said instead.

“Wake him up,” said Cordelia. “I want to get an update on the real story before first period.”

Xander looked at Cordelia to confirm that she was serious. She was, and she was getting impatient. Hesitantly, he approached Giles and laid a hand on his shoulder.“—behind you!” Giles shouted, starting upright. “Oh,” he said yawning, embarrassed, “it’s you two.”

“Vampires,” said Cordelia, “we’ve got four minutes till first period, what’s the status.”

“Four minutes?” said Giles worriedly, looking at the clock on the wall for confirmation. “Has Buffy not arrived yet?”

“Hey,” said Xander, grinning, “you ought to know that better than—” Cordelia’s elbow caught him hard in the ribs. “Ow!” he said defensively.

Giles gave him his patented long-suffering-but-nonetheless-offended look, and turned pointedly away from him to address Cordelia. “Vampires,” he said crisply. “They’re up to something. Some kind of ritual. Based on the phase of the moon and the fact that only young _women_ have been found drained and butchered, and only slightly more than half of those that were taken... something involving virgin sacrifice.”

Cordelia’s brow furrowed. “Then how on Earth does Harmony fit in?” She said this so utterly seriously that Giles and even Xander tried not to give any indication that they found the statement humorous in any way. They both knew how close the two girls had been at one time.

“Probably, as part of their growing army of vampires,” Giles explained grimly. “Buffy slew Tiffany Maitland last night, as well as Lisa Courtlander, so it’s pretty clear what’s happening to those who are not... found acceptable as sacrifices.”

“So what exactly would the point of this ritual be?” Xander asked. “Other than separating the girls from the women?”

“Well I’m not entirely sure,” Giles admitted. “Most likely a tribute to some demon or small god from whom the vampires are seeking a... blessing of some kind. I was just starting to narrow down the possibilities when I... fell asleep, apparently.”

“Well I want to help,” said Cordelia very deliberately. “I want to kill vampires. Hopefully from a safe distance. Where do I start?”

“You don’t,” said Giles flatly.

“You _know_ there’s more than Buffy can kill herself,” Cordelia pointed out.

“True,” said Giles. “Now _there’s_ something you can do to help,” he added, brightening a little. “Kendra’s arriving at the airport at 3:30 and I have another faculty meeting. Could you go and pick her up?”

“We’d love to,” Xander answered a little too eagerly.

Cordelia gave him a warning look before turning back to Giles and saying, “I can do that, but I’m serious about the training thing. Two against two dozen or two hundred is not a good battle plan and you know it.”

“Nevertheless,” Giles pointed out, “I’m not sure that gives me the right to put you children in harm’s way.”

“Us what now?” Xander asked, a little too pleased. Giles just glared at him.

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “More passive, less aggressive,” she admonished him. “And I was born in this God forsaken town,” she admonished Giles. “Harm was in _my_ way first.”

Giles contemplated her for a moment. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” he said wonderingly. He had never thought of Cordelia being serious about anything other than adolescent social politics.

“As a vamp attack,” she assured him. “Where do I start?”

“I’ll... give it some thought,” he said seriously.

“You’d better,” said Cordelia severely, “I don’t go to the airport for just anybody.”

Cordelia turned to leave. “One question,” Xander said. Cordelia turned back exasperatedly, expecting something Buffy related. “When we pick Kendra up, where are we taking her?”

Giles was puzzled by the question. “To my apartment,” he said, trying to understand why this wasn’t obvious. “There’s a key on top of the door frame.”

Xander and Cordelia exchanged a look. “You live on the edge,” said Cordelia, speaking for both of them with an odd mix of amusement, awe and disapproval that gave the overall impression that she felt he was making a grievous error.

Giles’ brow furrowed. “I have got a sofa,” he pointed out, guessing that some insinuation about his sleeping arrangements was intended, since no one seemed to be able to talk about anything else anymore. The bell rang. They ignored it.

“Yeah,” said Cordelia sarcastically, “have fun explaining that to her Watcher after he finds out you were banging Buffy the whole time his vestal virgin was sacking it on your couch. You can practice by explaining it to Buffy’s mom.”

“Good lord!” Giles gasped, stunned. He ran his hands though his hair and laughed a little nervously. “I... can’t quite seem to get used to life on this side of the looking glass.” He thought a moment, cleaning his glasses for something to do with his hands. “I don’t think it’s a wonderful idea for her to stay with Buffy, or more precisely, Joyce,” he mused. “God knows what she would tell her about me. Also, I’ve been... summoned to go over there and have a ‘talk’ with her tonight. I’ve a feeling it could go rather late.” He made an unpleasant face. “Also, possibly rather loud.”

“We’ve got to get to class,” Cordelia pointed out. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”

 ****

Somehow, Buffy managed to make it through the first two periods without falling asleep. Mr. Miller mercifully refrained from calling on her. He seemed to sense that she needed a break. In English class, Coach Hawkins spoiled her plans to chat with Xander and Willow by making everyone sit in alphabetical order, but on the plus side, he didn’t care what anyone did as long as they did it quietly, which at least gave her a chance to finish her homework. When morning break finally came, she was tempted to go to the library, but she didn’t want to pour gasoline on the gossip fire. She sent her regards with Xander, who was already on his way to tell Giles that Kendra would be staying with Willow.

“I’m going to put mom in the guest room,” Willow explained as they walked outside in the fresh air. “It’ll be easier than moving all those boxes. I might need your help though, she’s a little heavy.”

“Sure,” said Buffy, feeling a little uneasy at the prospect of essentially moving Sheila’s body to avoid detection. “First thing after school.” Willow gave no indication that she was aware of Buffy’s uneasiness, or the strangeness of her request. “How is... everything... at your house?” Buffy asked.

“Still no luck trying to de-rat Amy,” Willow said, “so I went to the mall last night and got her one of those big hamster cages with a wheel and all that. She should be a little more comfortable in there. She did put in for a sabbatical for Mom before she... changed, so at least no one at the University is going to report her missing. With Mom’s savings account and Dad’s life insurance, money shouldn’t be an issue for a while.” Willow imagined Buffy was giving her a look. “I know it’s not exactly... mine to spend,” she said apologetically, “but I don’t see a good way around it right now.”

Buffy shrugged. Willow’s parents would be paying to support her if they were both alive and awake, she pointed out. As long as she didn’t spend money wantonly like she had with Amy, it would probably be alright. The mention of Amy’s name seemed to make Willow a little more agitated. “How are things with Oz?” Buffy asked, changing the subject.

“Weird but... mostly good, I guess” Willow said doubtfully. She colored a little and looked around before adding, barely above a whisper despite the fact that no one was near, “We did it... you know... the thing... sort of.”

“Sort of?” Buffy asked skeptically. Maybe it was just because she was tired, but she felt a little annoyed with Willow’s childish reluctance to speak plainly. How do you ‘sort of’ have sex? And given that they had apparently both personally done it, shouldn’t they be mature enough to call it what it was?

“Well,” Willow elaborated, “I mean, we did do it but we didn’t really... finish. We had to stop because of the whole punctured lung/broken ribs/horrible agonizing pain issue.”

Buffy made a face. “That sound like the worst sex ever,” she said.

“It kind of was,” Willow admitted. “I’m glad we did it, though, I think. It felt like... I don’t know... clarification?” Buffy thought she understood what her friend meant. Willow was good at a lot of things, but dealing with gray areas wasn’t one of them. It must have been hard for her to feel like Oz was still her boyfriend when Amy had been her lover, physically, and he hadn’t. It also settled the issue of her virginity. “The only thing is,” Willow went on, confirming Buffy’s assessment, seeming uneasy again, “I don’t know what it means, the whole Amy thing... you know not the rat thing the... sex... thing.”

“Willow,” Buffy tried to reassure her, “It doesn’t mean anything. It was a spell. A couple of spells at least, actually.”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Willow, still clearly unconvinced. They walked in silence for a moment. “So what about you and Giles?” Willow asked at last, her smile at once mischievous and a little embarrassed.

It was entirely clear to Buffy exactly what aspect of her relationship she was being asked to discuss, but she wasn’t sure she was quite ready to go there. Still, it was nice to have Willow back, to have _somebody_ she could talk to about relationship stuff in general. “I’d have to go with weird but good, also,” she admitted. “I mean... he’s still... Giles and to a certain extent we still relate to each other the same as always, I mean the whole Watcher/Slayer thing whereby he takes everything way too seriously except for the things I think are important that he doesn’t but then at the same time... he’s like a whole new person. He’s _happy_ and it’s like, how did I not realize that he wasn’t before? Like Saturday morning, he _sang_ to me, like full on serenading, complete with acoustic guitar accompaniment, that old Paul McCartney song, you know not the one about the silly love songs but the one I always think of when I hear the one about the silly love songs, only this time it really wasn’t silly at all! And he can really sing too, which I never even would have guessed. I mean, like, he started singing to me in the shower this morning, and it was so sweet, I didn’t want to get out, and we were smiling and laughing and it’s just like... oh my God, he’s like this _guy_ , this sweet, smart, sexy interesting guy and not just Mr. ‘I enjoy cross referencing’ although, sadly, he actually does.”

“So you were _both_ in the shower?” Willow persisted hopefully, “together?”

Buffy gave her a sideways look. “Not that I’m complaining,” she said, “but since when doesn’t this subject gross you out?”

Willow shrugged, “I don’t know, I guess my standard for weirdness has just gone up a lot lately. I mean, alright he’s a grownup and everything, but we pretty much are too at this point, or we might as well be.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed, “I guess we are. You’re pretty much living on your own, and I’m about to be married with a kid. God, how weird is that?”

“Very, very,” Willow admitted. “I mean not, ‘hey I’m a guy’ weird, but it takes some getting used to.”

“It takes some getting ready for,” Buffy worried aloud, “I don’t even know where to start and for once—or for twice I guess—Giles is as clueless as I am. And things are so touchy with Mom... I just hope she calms down enough to keep from getting in the way.”

Willow thought of the conversation she’d had with Joyce on the phone the other day. “She wants to help,” she said. “She’s just... worried about you.”

“Yeah, I know that,” said Buffy, getting a little agitated, “but it doesn’t help. I mean I get that Article 1 Section 1 of the Mom Code says ‘don’t let middle aged men have sex with your teenage daughter,’ but we are so past that at this point.”

“Give her time,” Willow advised. “She’s known about this for what two days?”

“Less,” Buffy admitted. “And I know it took _us_ a couple of weeks to be okay with what we’re doing. I just hope she gives us time to give her time. I mean, right now she could literally make one phone call and ruin our lives forever. It’s terrifying. And then there’s the whole Council thing, and the school and starting next month we’re going to have a probation officer all in our business... We’re in dangerous territory here. We need to catch a lot of breaks for things to be okay.”

“I know how you feel,” Willow sympathized, contradicting her earlier assertion that her life was more or less okay. “I mean, if anyone finds out what kind of shape my mom’s in, let alone how she got that way, never mind the money thing, I’ll be lucky if they just send me to Holly House and not JDC, or prison even. And Amy’s dad reported her missing! And the police want to talk to me about it with my mom and my lawyer, which we made an appointment for tomorrow afternoon, but I don’t have any mom to go with me and I don’t know what to do!” She was working herself into an ever increasing state of agitation, her speech becoming ever more rapid and high pitched. “And I tried to talk to Oz about all this, and he just like... clammed up! Which I know, if you don’t know, would sound like it sounds like him, but he’s usually really, really supportive about all this scary life stuff, and I think he kind of knows about me and Amy even if he doesn’t know that he knows and then there’s the whole moon thing, and I’m still kind of worried he going to die! And...and... and....”

“Willow,” Buffy said firmly, taking her friend by the shoulders, “Willow, breathe! You’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”

“Buffy,” Willow wailed miserably, “what am I going to do? I don’t _want_ to be a grownup! I want my Dad! I need him to take care for me!”

“No,” Buffy said firmly, shaking her head. “Want, yes; need, no. Willow, you can do this. As far as the... police stuff... we’ll figure something out. If it comes right down to it, Amy’s not the only person who can do a glamour, right?”

“More magic?” asked Willow skeptically.

“You got a better idea?” Buffy challenged mildly.

“Well... no,” Willow admitted. The first bell rang for third period. They said their goodbyes, leaving the issue unresolved. But Buffy was becoming more and more sure she knew the solution. When it came down to it, Buffy and Giles were still the root cause of most of Willow’s problems, her legal problems at least. They owed it to her to do what they could to help straighten them out.

****

By the time she walked in and saw it, Joyce had just about forgotten to expect her dining room table to be smashed to pieces. For one maudlin moment, she told herself it was a perfect symbol of her life. ‘Because I’m sure self pity is the way to solve all my problems,’ she chided herself silently. It was no good wishing the table or her once normal family situation back together. Joyce tried to tell herself that it was not about what she wanted or deserved or used to have but what it was possible to have now. That was fine as far as the table went, but her family was another matter. Despite what she had said to Mr. Giles about ‘getting a few things straight,’ Joyce didn’t have a clue what she hoped to accomplish by speaking with the man. She could lay down the law, but she didn’t believe for a minute that he would follow it. At most, he would pretend long enough to see if it got him any closer to extracting her consent to their ‘marriage.’ She could either accept that he was going to keep having sex with Buffy (with or without the benefit of clergy) or call the police to try and stop him. Neither of those seemed like a workable option. One would be a complete abdication of her responsibility as a parent, the other almost guaranteed to destroy her relationship with her daughter just when Buffy needed her the most.

On the advice of every book about conflict resolution she had ever read or listened to, Joyce tried to put herself in Mr. Giles position. It was not a comfortable one. Other than turning back time or committing ritual suicide, it was hard to see a morally defensible course of action. His only real options were to leave Buffy or to stay with her. Objectively, she had to admit that the former was probably the rottener thing to do. So, given that he intended to continue his sexual relationship with a child easily young enough to be his own daughter and almost as susceptible to his influence, he had to find a way to try to tell himself that it was alright. By marrying Buffy, he hoped to glue the rubble of his life back together in the shape of a normal family situation. From Buffy’s point of view, the situation was even simpler. She wanted him, ergo he belonged to her. She had, of course, given herself in return, so that settled it. Love would simply have to conquer all. Anyone who stood in the way of that was the enemy.

Joyce smiled sardonically, remembering all of the friends and relatives, including her grandfather, who had tried to tell her that her relationship with Hank Summers was a mistake and would end badly. They had been half right, which was, for all practical purposes, the same as being entirely wrong. No matter how it ends, the relationship that makes you a mother is never a mistake. A catastrophe maybe, but never a mistake. Mistakes are things you would change. Of course, the two situations were not comparable. Except from the point of view of a young woman in love. After all, what were all the laws of God and Man compared to the innocent, passionate certitude of a seventeen-year-old girl who has made a promise and means to keep it?

Joyce sat down in one of the orphaned dining chairs and buried her face in her hands. She was cornered and she knew it. The only thing she could do was to negotiate the terms of her surrender. Given that fact, she didn’t see any advantage in delaying the inevitable. If this person was going to be her daughter’s husband (and/or ex-husband) for the rest of her life, it could only be to Buffy’s advantage to preserve his reputation as much as was still possible. The sooner they could be married, the more plausible it would be to deny that a crime had ever taken place. But where did that leave Joyce? Did a parent have any authority over a married daughter, even if she was seventeen? If not, that amounted to unconditional surrender. What was the alternative? To stand on her parental authority and demand concessions? Even if she had felt confident in her ability to do so, there were none to be had that she could think of. What did she really want from him, other than to pull the scales from her daughter’s eye and leave her family in peace? That wasn’t going to happen. What about the fact that Buffy was still on bail and, in likelihood, soon to be on probation? How would the Court respond if Buffy was no longer in her mother’s custody? Joyce needed advice and, ironically, she realized, she knew where she could get it. She rummaged through her purse and came up with Hal Gaston’s card. God! She had actually _thanked_ Mr. Giles for his help with Buffy’s problems! ‘Believe me,’ he’d said in that amused, self-effacing way, ‘it’s the least I can do.’

Hal answered on the first ring, but he seemed less than entirely pleased to hear who was on the other end of the line. He was. Especially when she made her reason for calling clear. She hadn’t said Rupert Giles’ name, of course, and _his_ questions had been entirely ‘hypothetical’ but it would take a complete idiot to stand in Hal’s position and not see that he was being asked to advise two (or more probably three) parties whose interests were breathtakingly inconsistent. Not that he could say so without betraying a confidence. It was like a damned bar exam question, the kind he had never been good at. He did what he always tried to do in this situation, which was to stick as much as possible to neutral statements of law and fact and avoid giving any advice as such. “When a minor is married,” he explained, “she is emancipated at a matter of law. For most legal purposes, she’d be an adult. You’d have absolutely no legal authority over her, and neither would her father.”

“So what’s the effect on her pretrial release?” Joyce wanted to know. “The Court released her into my custody.”

Hal thought a minute. “Courts sometimes release adults into the custody of a relative,” he pointed out. “If I remember how the Order was worded, as long as you’re still willing to be responsible for her compliance with the terms of release, the fact that she’s not in your custody from a domestic relations point of view shouldn’t be sufficient to revoke. She’d still have to live with you, though, unless you have a hearing to get the conditions changed, which could easily result in her being locked up.”

“Well _he_ certainly isn’t staying here,” said Joyce emphatically.

“Well,” Hal replied uneasily, “that’s something the three of you will have to work out for yourselves.” He felt a stab of guilt, knowing that her real problems were huger than she could possibly imagine. It seemed cowardly not to warn her just because he would be sticking his own neck out. Still, it wasn’t as though she was likely to believe that her daughter’s life was in danger from a mystical ‘Council of Watchers’ who used teenage girls as pawns in the battle against the more unambiguous forces of darkness. She had asked for his opinion on the law and he had given it to her. Sometimes, there was only so much you could do.

Joyce was struggling with questions of a not so legal nature herself. “How well do you know Rupert Giles?” she asked finally, “what kind of a man is he?”

“Reliable,” Hal said. It was literally the first word that came to his mind when he thought of his long-term client. “If the man says he’ll do something, you can count on it being done.” The second word that had come to his mind was ‘secretive’, which lead more or less directly to ‘dangerous’ when you knew what even a few of his secrets were. “Circumspect,” he said aloud, keeping the remorse he felt out of his voice. “He’s not one to over share, at least, not unless it’s legally relevant.”

“Reliable and Circumspect,” Joyce repeated. “And yet you don’t seem surprised to hear what he’s been up to.”

“Nothing surprises me much anymore,” Hal said. After more than a dozen years of dealing with Council clients (not to mention some of the other shit that came through the Del Bacco County court system) that was really true. But the recent adventures of Rupert Giles had actually shocked the hell out of him. Because the Watcher _was_ reliable and circumspect and, by his own lights, within the bounds of his own loyalties, a man of integrity and basically a nice guy. More importantly, he had a highly developed sense of propriety and personal dignity that seemed entirely inconsistent with putting his hands or any other body parts where they didn’t belong. Which, Hal supposed, explained why he had chosen such a dangerous solution to his personal problems. It wasn’t enough for him to ‘go and sin no more.’ He had to legitimize what he’d already done.

It was clear the conversation was drawing to a close. While she had him on the line, Joyce asked about the status of Buffy’s case. Hal explained that since the last offer from Engels of one year probation, he had counter offered for three months but hadn’t heard back. “We’ll settle at six,” he explained confidently. “He doesn’t usually negotiate quite like that, but he will for me.”

Joyce thanked him and hung up just as Buffy walked through the kitchen door. That was a surprise. It was only a quarter to four. She said so. “Giles is in a faculty meeting,” Buffy explained, having no trouble figuring out what her mother meant. “I’ve been at Willow’s helping her... get ready for a friend who’s coming to stay for a few days, another Slayer, actually, Kendra. The Hellmouth situation is getting hairy. We need all the help we can get.”

“I thought you took care of the... ghost issue,” Joyce said.

“Yeah,” Buffy confirmed, “and while I was doing that Angel and his gang slaughtered forty kids on their way to the Sadie Hawkins dance. They’re doing some kind of a virgin sacrifice deal and adding the rest of the kids to their army of vampires, getting ready for a major smack-down.”

“Wait,” said Joyce, confused, not by the mass murder, which she’d actually read about, but by something else, “What do you mean _another_ Slayer. I thought you were the only one for the whole world.”

“Well... I was...” Buffy looked down at her feet wiggling her painted toes in her open sandals. “But then I sort of... died... a little bit—”

“You what!?!” Joyce croaked, blinking furiously.

“Died?” Buffy confirmed with an apologetic half smile. “But it was only for a minute, and Xander brought me right back with CPR, it was really not that bad at all.”

“Not that bad? Buffy you died. When was this? Why didn’t you tell me you died?” Joyce sounded equal parts anxious and offended.

“Because I was killed by an undead monster, in fulfillment of an ancient prophesy, while stopping the apocalypse,” Buffy pointed out. “I didn’t think you’d believe me. And it was the same night as Spring Fling, which actually was a lot of fun, so by the time I got home, I wasn’t so focused on the whole ‘death’ thing. Or okay, maybe I was just repressing. It’s been a really weird year, Mom.”

Joyce shook her head, laughing at herself. “And I actually thought for once I knew what was wrong. I thought my advice helped you.”

Buffy laid a friendly hand on her mother’s shoulder. “It did,” she assured her warmly, “not what you said, just... saying it.” It was nice of her to say so, but Joyce knew now with absolute certainty that Buffy’s problems were beyond her. She’d been living a simultaneous, secret adult life for two years. She had revealed her secrets to her mother only and precisely because Joyce’s continued efforts at parenting her were hindering, not helping the serious work that she needed to get done.

Joyce seemed to recall a famous painter who had said something along the lines of ‘when you don’t know where to put the brush anymore you’re done.’ She wished she could remember if he had meant done with the painting or done with your career. “I give up,” she said aloud, sounding sort of neutrally bemused, blandly overwhelmed, more stunned than defeated.

Buffy felt a guilty sneaking sense of hope. If her mother was declaring her intention to set her free, she’d take it on any terms, but she didn’t want her to think she’d failed as a parent. Besides being just too sad, it was nowhere near the truth. “Call it a tie?” she joked nervously. Joyce smiled weakly. “Or we could join forces and both declare victory.”

“I think I like that better,” Joyce admitted.

“After all,” Buffy pointed out in her best cheerful deadpan, “I turned out totally fabulous.”

“You still have to finish school,” Joyce said sternly.

Buffy heaved a sigh of mock frustration, “Yeah, that’s what Giles said.”

“I still get to be mad at him,” Joyce said.

“But you can’t yell at him,” Buffy countered. “Also no throwing things.” Joyce cast a critical eye around the rubble filled dining room. “That was an emergency,” Buffy pointed out.

“You’re paying for a new table,” Joyce said, “a nice one too.”

“Whatever you want!” Buffy assured her mother, her excitement starting to bubble up as their tacit understanding sank in. She put her left hand in her pocket and slipped her ring back on before giving Joyce a big hug.

As she released Buffy from her embrace, Joyce took a hold of her hand. “That’s a strange ring,” she said, examining it closely.

Buffy shrugged. “He’s a strange guy; I’m a strange girl. Anyway, it was his grandmother’s. It means a lot to him. Plus, there are tons of demons you can only kill by sticking something silver through them, and the diamond has really sharp edges.”

“You use your engagement ring as a weapon?” Joyce asked mildly incredulously.

“I’m resourceful,” said Buffy cheerfully. “It’s a Slayer thing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't do a ton of footnoting, but here is a great glimpse at the culture of cell phone use in 1998  
> http://www.itu.int/ITU-D/ict/publications/wtdr_99/material/wtdr99s.pdf


	4. Crazy Mixed-Up World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected circumstance propels Buffy, Giles and Joyce to decisive action on the issue of marriage. The Scoobies continue to martial their forces, including Kendra, to face what they assume is Angel's plan of attack, but no one is prepared for what Spike does next. Cordelia proposes an old-school solution to the problem of being outnumbered by an entrenched enemy. Sheriff Wilkins giftwraps a murder suspect for an old friend. Oz worries that Willow is in over her head. And Sunnydale faculty, new and old, are full of surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Penultimate Chapter of Part I: Motherless Child

“So...” said Willow nervously, staring at Kendra across the table, “can I get you something to eat?” She went over everything in her mind again reassuring herself that all her magical supplies, Amy’s books and anything else that could connect her to the dark arts or her mother’s disappearance was locked in the spare bedroom, the key to which was hidden in her mother’s jewelry box. She tried to remember why she had thought it might be okay to have a deadly supernatural warrior with a seventh-grade, black-and-white sense of Good and Evil stay with her at this particular time in her life.

“I’m fine for now,” Kendra said stiffly. “It is... very thoughtful of you to allow me to stay here wit’ you,” she added politely. But she seemed puzzled by the arrangement. There was an awkward silence. “I don’t understand why I am not to report to Mr. Giles right away,” she said finally. “Are matters here not extremely urgent?”

“Well...” Willow fumbled for words, “they are... but he had some... personal business to take care of. But, hopefully, he and, and Buffy will meet us here when they get done.”

Kendra’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand,” she said. “How does his personal business involve Buffy?”

Willow smiled weakly, “It doesn’t,” she lied unconvincingly. “I just meant that when he gets done, hopefully, they’ll both come. Here.”

Kendra looked more puzzled than ever, but said only, “Alright. We will wait, but we need to stop t’ese vampires soon. It is only t’ree days until the full moon. Whatever t’ey are planning could have very grave consequences.”

“Well, on the plus side,” Willow pointed out, “based on their activity—or inactivity—since the big raid last Friday and the fact that every butcher shop in town has had a huge spike in orders for pigs blood, Giles is pretty sure they plan to stay put tonight and tomorrow at least.”

****

“We have to move tonight, the sooner the better,” Sunday announced to her seven minions. “Whatever hocus-pocus Spike is up to, if any of his massive army kills the Slayer, with or without supernatural help, he’ll take credit for it and then no vamp will be safe in this town unless they kiss his ass and let him smack them around. It’ll be The Master all over again, only worse ‘cause he’ll be running around loose. We can’t let that happen. We have to kill the Slayer first. And I have a plan.”

****

“Flamethrowers?” Xander asked again skeptically.

“Yeah,” Cordelia confirmed getting exasperated, “flamethrowers. How many times do I have to say it?” Xander was still looking at her as though she’d said something ridiculous. “Well it worked against the Japanese,” she pointed out. Blank incomprehension. “In World War II.” Still nothing. “In the South Pacific.”

“The one with the singing sailors and the girls in grass skirts?” Xander asked.

Cordelia rolled her eyes. “The one with the enemy hold up underground in caves where even vastly superior forces couldn’t get them out with just guns and bullets... which we don’t have. Guns or bullets that is, or vastly superior forces, not that any of those three things helps that much against vampires.”

“We also don’t have flamethrowers,” Xander pointed out. “Where did you hear about this anyway?”

“It was in the reading for History for tomorrow,” Cordelia pointed out. “And you are _not_ looking off me if we have a quiz. Anyway, I’m texting Buffy.”

Xander grinned wickedly. “Fine by me,” he said, “I’m a nineties kinda guy. Don’t let Giles catch you at it though.”

“That’s so very funny,” said Cordelia sarcastically. “I’m sending a note to her phone,” she added, pretty sure his ‘joke’ was to cover the fact that he had no Earthly clue what she was talking about, as usual, “about the flamethrowers.”

 ****

By 6:15, there was literally nothing Buffy or Joyce could do other than wait for Giles to get there. They had already eaten (sandwiches at the kitchen counter) and true to her word, Joyce would prepare nothing for the sake of hospitality. They sat in the living room in awkward silence. In a weird way, it felt like déjà vu all over again. At least he wasn’t coming to ‘straighten her out’ as her father had tried to do last week. He was on _her_ side, and anyway they were not so much expecting to do battle as to negotiate a peace treaty. Her mother had basically conceded the main point of contention. “I could call him and tell him to come early,” Buffy offered.

Joyce shook her head. “No no,” she said. “We’ll wait.” Several more minutes passed in silence. Inside her pocket, Buffy’s new phone made a sound that wasn’t exactly a ring. She pulled it out and looked at it.

“What’s that,” Joyce asked warily.

“A message,” Buffy said, puzzled, not focused on her mother, “from Cordelia. It says ‘flamethrowers’?”

“That’s a cell phone,” Joyce pointed out a little crossly. “Buffy, since when do you have a cell phone?”

“Since yesterday?” said Buffy half apologetically, realizing her mistake.

“When I called yesterday,” Joyce said with sudden realization, “It was just your voice on the machine. I thought you’d just changed the message.” Joyce’s voice became tenser, more angry. “He actually went out and _bought_ you a phone just so you could lie to me about being home last night.”

“Technically... yeah,” Buffy admitted. “But we killed six vampires, and I know for a fact that I saved at least one guy in my class—Blayne Something—from getting eaten.”

“That’s not the point,” Joyce said thinly.

“It might be to Blayne,” Buffy pointed out. “To his parents too, probably.”

Joyce felt frustrated. There was a sense in which she knew Buffy was right. A mythic supernatural hero could hardly let her mother’s last ditch effort at parenting stand in the way of her duty to protect the townspeople from horrible monsters. But she couldn’t help resenting the fact that her daughter and this _man_ she was sleeping with had, yet again, used deception to circumvent her parental judgment only hours after they had dutifully promised they wouldn’t. “What about flamethrowers?” she asked, needing to think about anything else, not wanting to get too angry to have the dialog she need to have with the cradle-robbing son-of-a-bitch.

Buffy shrugged. “That’s all it says. ‘Flamethrowers.’” Neither woman knew what to make of that, especially considering the source. Fortunately, they were spared the trouble.

The doorbell rang. Buffy hopped up but Joyce waved her to sit down. “He’s here to see me,” she pointed out. But it was not Rupert Giles on the other side of the door.

It was a distressed looking girl, blond, about Buffy’s age and size, with fresh welts darkening to bruises across her face. “Can I use your phone?” the girl begged, looking worriedly over her shoulder. “I need to call the police.”

The hair on the back of Buffy’s neck stood up. Vampires. Nearby. A lot of them. Either they were after this girl or—“Come on in,” Joyce said kindly, a fraction of a second before Buffy could warn her.

The girl, whose face was suddenly a horrible mask of evil, grabbed Joyce and pulled her across the threshold. “You come out,” it snarled. No time to think or prepare, Buffy rushed out onto the front porch after them. Two vamps leapt down onto her back from the eves of the roof, one biting into her left shoulder, the other into her right side. They ripped huge gashes in her flesh as she shrugged them off, letting them crumple to the porch floor. Four more were advancing up the front steps to join her mother’s captor. An eighth stood confidently on the front sidewalk, ordering the others around. They were all young (looking) and mostly female, including their chief, a stout, smug bottle blond.

Joyce struggled fiercely, but one vampire was easily enough to hold her. When she screamed for help, it banged her head against the porch railing, knocking her unconscious, or worse. Buffy was horrified, but she didn’t have time to be. She was bleeding badly. The vamps would be on her in seconds. She grabbed a thin decorative post from the porch railing and yanked it free, letting it splinter at both ends. She quickly jammed it through the hearts of the two closest vampires, the ones who had attacked her, but the third used Joyce as a human shield, retreating through the advancing pack.

“Stake one more and she dies!” the Hindmost shouted. That was the title that came to Buffy’s mind, and with the capital letter too. Leading from behind, from a position imagined safety, like the cowardly, manipulative alien monster that she was; this bitch sure thought she was pulling the strings. Buffy stopped dead. For the moment, maybe she was. Joyce was surrounded by five vamps now. The time to rescue her with one well placed blow was past.

“If she dies, you die!” The Slayer shouted.

“Won’t bring her back,” Sunday pointed out coolly, advancing into the midst of them all. Buffy guessed she was going to be brave—or crazy—after all. “Why don’t we all go inside and discuss it privately?” she suggested.

“Because you’re a bloodsucking demon who wants to kill us both,” Buffy answered dryly. “We can talk out here.” But they both knew there was little to talk about. Both sides were playing for time, hoping someone would make a wrong move. Someone did. With her boss now in front of her, not in a position to watch her, the vamp actually holding Joyce had backed through the crowd and was starting to descend the steps with her, instinctively putting both personnel and distance between herself and the Slayer. Buffy leapt over the heads of the vampire throng and crashed solidly into Joyce and her attacker before anyone could react. Prying her mother’s limp body from the stunned monster’s grasp, she quickly staked her and advanced back towards the others, no time to check for signs of life. She had to kill them all before she lost too much blood, before she was too weak to protect her mother.

For their part, most of the vamps seemed on the verge of panic, but at their leader’s stern command, they stood firm, then advanced. Leaping over the porch rail and taking up ranged positions in the yard, they began slowly closing a wide circle around Buffy and Joyce. The Slayer looked rapidly around the circle, keeping an eye in all directions as best she could. Both of her wounds were still bleeding copiously. She was definitely too weak to do much jumping now, and her left arm was basically out of action. She was more afraid than she could remember being at any time since she’d come to Sunnydale, for her mother as well as herself. Spotting what she hoped was the weakest link, Buffy stared fiercely into the worried eyes of a fat brunette. “I can kill _you_ before they stop me,” she said coolly. The demon took a moment to absorb this obviously true information. Despite the shouted commands of her mistress, she turned and fled. Several of the others cast worried looks at one another.

The vibe was changing rapidly. “Now!” Sunday shouted, before it was too late, lunging for Buffy herself with a show of confident expectation that others would follow. They did. As one, all four remaining vampires fell upon the Slayer. Dennis got staked pretty quickly, but Sunday got her teeth into the girl’s throat while her two surviving minions, Kim and Shawna, sat on her, each holding down an arm and a leg, themselves biting and drinking. Another minute or so, and she would be drained. “Stop!” Sunday cried. “She has to have enough blood left to mix. And she has to be strong enough to swallow.” Spike thought he should rule the roost with his bad ass rep as ‘Slayer of Slayers.’ Sunday would see how he liked having a Sire of Slayers for competition.

The thought passed through Sunday’s mind that she might have felt a slight breeze. Shawna exploded in a puff of dust. Sunday leapt up holding the bleeding Slayer before her as a shield, looking for the shooter of arrows. Shrieking, Kim got to her feet, ready to run. The mother, who must have come to while they were busy with the Slayer, punched her hard in the face. Startled, she stumbled backwards, almost losing her footing, but recovered quickly. She grabbed the woman by the throat with one hand and lifted her off the ground. She was a good eight inched taller than Kim, however, so that she couldn’t hold her out far enough to keep her from kicking her black and blue with those long legs. Kim tightened her grip on her throat. When the bolt shot through Sunday’s eye lodged itself in her brain, she no longer had the presence of mind to hold on to her prey. Clutching at her face in horror, she let the Slayer fall to the ground. The next bolt got her through the heart.

Giles felt sure his next shot would have dispatched the petite blonde who was the last of what had evidently been a large raiding party. However, as luck would have it, Joyce managed to knock her down with a sharp kick to the knee, saving her almost life. He cursed quietly, dropping his bow and pulling a stake from his sleeve as he advanced. Joyce landed on top of the vampire. Capitalizing on the initiative, she grabbed the sharp piece of porch railing that Buffy had left lying on the ground next to her and tried to stab the creature in the heart. She hadn’t realized it took so much muscle to drive wood through flesh and bone. She’d done no more than bruise the vampire’s chest when it rose, threw her to the ground and fled into the night.

For a fraction of a second, Giles considered pursuing the fleeing demon, but he feared Buffy was badly hurt. She was. He found her on the ground and pulled her into his arms, elevating her head. She was bleeding profusely from more wounds than he could hope to address alone. Nonetheless, he pulled off his shirt and pressed it to the wound in her throat while he tried to think of the fastest way to get help. She stared up at him glassily. “You get to be the hero this time” she murmured distantly. “Guys like that, don’t they?”

He’d rather she rescued him fifty times than to ever have to see her like this. He told her so. She smiled and closed her eyes, mumbling something he couldn’t make out. “Keep your eyes open,” he ordered firmly. “I won’t have you falling asleep on the job!” His heart was in his throat. She didn’t seem to see or hear him. Joyce stumbled towards them. “Call an ambulance!” he ordered, nearing blind panic. Saying nothing, she reached for Buffy. For a second, Giles though she was going to try to pull her from his arms, but she put a hand in Buffy’s pants pocket and came out with the cell phone, quickly dialing 9-1-1.

Knowing that help was on its way calmed him a little, making a tiny space in his mind for something other than the paralyzing dread of losing her. Buffy’s shoulder wound was close enough to the one in her throat that Giles could put pressure on both with the same shirt if he used both hands. Joyce put the phone on speaker and laid it on Buffy’s chest while she pulled off her belt and tied it as a tourniquet on her daughter’s bleeding left leg. “One more,” Mr. Giles informed her. “Right side.” Following his example, she took off her own shirt and pressed it to the wound. They were assured that the ambulance would arrive at any moment. They were asked what had caused the injuries. Joyce didn’t know how to respond. Fighting would almost certainly be grounds to revoke Buffy’s bail. Did it matter who started the fight? “Dogs,” Mr. Giles lied quite naturally, “a huge pack of wild dogs. She’s pregnant. She’s lost a lot of blood.” Joyce had to tell them her blood type. Giles didn’t know it without looking at his records.

Then the ambulance came and took Buffy away. Neither cloud ride. They would both have to follow. There was no time to argue. Giles’ car was parked by the curb. They got in and headed for the hospital. “She’ll be alright,” he said, as much to himself as to Joyce. “She just needs blood.”

“They’re bad bites,” said Joyce worriedly.

“Slayers have incredible healing powers,” Giles assured her. He looked over at Joyce. There was a huge purple knot in the middle of her forehead and her mostly exposed upper body was scraped and battered. He was beginning to remember that she hadn’t been too steady on her feet. “Are _you_ alright?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she answered automatically, but as the hammering of her heart slowed a little, she began to doubt it. She was starting to feel the bruises over most of her body, and her left leg felt... not right where it had been twisted beneath her at one point in the fight.

“Well, let’s let them have a look at you anyhow,” he said diplomatically, “just to be safe.”

Joyce nodded. Stripped to his T-shirt he looked like an entirely different person from the one she was used to seeing in the library: muscular, tattooed, a different kind of intense. She wrapped her arms around her chest, feeling suddenly self-conscious about her own shirtlessness. Giles took one hand off the wheel to reach behind the seat and toss her one of his famous tweed coats. “Thanks,” she said slipping it on. They were silent for another long moment staring at the road in front of them, two souls burdened by the same care. They would be at the hospital soon but not soon enough to suit either of them.

“She’s going to be terrified if I’m not there when she comes to,” Joyce worried aloud. Giles was puzzled by this statement for the second it took him to totally discount it, assuming that the mother was projecting her own fear onto her much braver child. “Buffy hates hospitals,” Joyce went on. She shook her head. “I should have known something was up when she wanted to visit you every damn day.” Giles said nothing, hoping she would let the subject drop. He didn’t think he had the patience to be chastised right now, especially for loving Buffy. As much as he tried to tell himself she’d be fine, as much as he knew it was undoubtedly true, he was still very worried about her. Fortunately, Joyce returned to her other main theme, recounting how Buffy had witnessed the death of a young cousin, Celia, in a hospital when she was eight. One of the two girls Wallace had mentioned, he realized. “They were very close,” Joyce explained, “and Buffy was alone with her at the time. She still has nightmares about it.”Giles considered this information and tentatively revised his opinion on the realism of Joyce’s concern. Though Buffy had never shared her fear of hospitals with him, she rarely said anything to anyone about her fears. She was the Slayer. And, of course, the only times he’d ever seen her in a hospital setting, she’d had injured loved ones for whom she’d needed to be brave.

Giles pulled up to the walk-in entrance of the ER and let Joyce out. “I’ll park and come find you,” he said.

“They might not let you,” she pointed out.

“Go,” he said. “I’ll figure it out.”

When Giles walked into the ER five minutes later, he was indeed refused admittance on the grounds that he was not ‘immediate family.’ He tried to argue that someone needed to be with Buffy so that Joyce could be seen to herself, but they would have none of it. He was very nearly on the point of insisting that he _was_ immediate family after all, when a terrible commotion announced the reappearance of the Summers women. Buffy was being wheeled on a gurney, obviously being admitted, straining at her restraints and loudly insisting that she must be released to “kill the demons.” He could see that she was still in the process of being transfused, a pint bag of blood hanging from her IV rack. The fact that she couldn’t actually break the hospital restraints told him that she needed more. Joyce was walking briskly alongside trying simultaneously to sooth her and to carry on a fierce argument of her own with two doctors who were insisting that she needed to (literally) have her head examined.

“Go on,” he told Joyce, coming along side, taking hold of Buffy’s hand, “I’ve got her. Shush, darling,” he added, laying his other hand on Buffy’s forehead. “You’re safe here. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

They were leaving the ER now, heading for Buffy’s room on the intermediate care floor. Joyce didn’t know quite what to do. She needed to be two places at once. She thought she had reached a decision this afternoon, but living the decision was something else. “Don’t you think you should let your husband—”one of the doctors began, trying to lead her away again.

“He’s not my husband!” she snapped.

“The vampires—!” Buffy tried to insist again.

“We killed them,” Giles assured her, “We killed them all.” It was near enough the truth. He didn’t have time to worry about what Joyce was saying to the doctors, but he managed to squeeze it in. Fortunately they had assumed he was her ex-husband and a few seconds reflection had been enough for her to think better of correcting them. Not that he wanted them to think he was Buffy’s father, but this was no time for long explanations.

“Take me home!” Buffy was insisting, “Giles, please take me home! I don’t want to stay here!”Someone added something to her IV, ‘to calm her down.’ “They can come right in, it’s not safe!” She wasn’t wrong, but she still needed medical attention.

“How many units has she had?” he asked.

“This is the second one,” someone in a white coat told him. “It’ll only bring her up to five. Hence the hallucinations. I really don’t see how she’s conscious. We’ll take her up to seven, that’s stable, but eight or nine is normal.”

“Mom,” Buffy begged pitifully, clutching at Joyce’s hand just as she was on the verge of allowing herself to be led back to the ER, “don’t leave me here. Please, please take me home.”

“As soon as we can,” Giles assured her soothingly, not giving Joyce a chance to answer. “We won’t leave you alone. One of us will stay with you the whole time. How is she other than the blood count?” he asked the doctor. “Will she be able to go home tonight, or in the morning?” Giles tried to follow the doctor’s answer, but he had his hands full soothing Buffy as Joyce reluctantly left them. The gist was that she had no broken bones; the doctor’s main concerns were whether her wounds would get infected and how fast the damage would heal. “We’ll have you out of here by tomorrow,” he whispered confidently in Buffy’s ear. She giggled and tried to kiss him. Whatever they’d given her had evidently kicked in fast. Normally, the Slayer metabolism worked against intoxicants, but Buffy had only a little more than half the blood in her veins she should have.

“ _Are_ you immediate family?” asked another doctor, a middle aged Black woman who had so far been silent other than giving medical orders.

“Yes,” Giles said blandly, without elaborating.

“You’re not her father,” the woman pointed out.

“Well I sure as hell hope not!” Buffy slurred, somewhere between amused and offended.

“Is that really the hot issue right now?” her male colleague asked testily. “Her bag’s empty,” he said to someone in scrubs, “hang another one. She should be more herself at six,” he told Giles, “even with the Benzos.”

“I want to know who this man is!”the female doctor insisted.

“He’s my husband,” Buffy explained cheerfully.

“I’m... an old friend of the family,” Giles said in response to their questioning looks.

“Sorry,” said Buffy spacily, “I forgot. It’s a secret. Don’t tell anybody.”

“Joyce asked me to stay with her,” he insisted defensively. “She can’t be in two places at once and Buffy doesn’t need to be alone. She’s just been nearly eaten alive for God’s sake! She’s terrified. Or she will be again when she’s half lucid.”The woman doctor pursed her lips but said nothing further. Buffy was already sobering a little, enough to keep from pouring oil on the fire at least. Once in her room, she was released from her restraints. Medical personnel kept going in and out, checking and rechecking various aspects of her health, but Giles was able to focus on providing a calm, centered space for her amidst the chaos.

By the time Joyce was released from the ER and came upstairs, limping a little, her ankle wrapped in an ace bandage, the knot on her head looking worse than ever, Buffy was finishing her fourth bag of blood. It had indeed made her more herself. She was still in a better mood than circumstances called for, but that was probably a good thing. She also still wanted to go home. Once she’d been assured that her pregnancy was unlikely to be endangered by even such a great loss of blood at this early stage, she had had all the medical advice she needed or wanted. “I _have_ to go home tonight,” she argued to anyone who would listen, or even stand still, “I’m already out two hours after curfew.”

“You can’t be revoked for a medical emergency,” one of the nurses assured her.

“I feel fine,” she insisted to everyone, including Joyce and Giles. Between the Slayer-class adrenaline boost, the endorphins, the Benzos and the morphine, that was probably the truth.

“Just because you feel fine doesn’t mean you are fine,” Giles pointed out firmly.

Joyce agreed. “You’re still weak, Honey,” she said.

“I’m stronger than either of you,” Buffy said matter-of-factly.

“You’re flesh has been ripped open and sewn back together in five places in the last hour and a half, and most of your blood has had to be replaced.” Giles pointed out in a very Watcherly way. “You are not fine, just very well medicated.”

“What about you, Mom?” Buffy challenged. “You have to have a concussion. Why aren’t you checked into a room?”

“Well... they wanted to admit me for observation,” she conceded, “but they can observe me just fine right here.”

A nurse stuck her head in the door. “Excuse me,” she said, “but visiting hours are over.”

“They’re family,” Buffy informed her flatly.

“Your mom can stay,” the nurse clarified, “but her boyfriend has to go.”

“Go,” Joyce said, not unkindly. “This is still on my watch.”

“But, Mom—!” Buffy started to protest.

“Soon,” Giles assured her squeezing her hand with earnest affection and regret, ignoring the suspicious look the nurse was giving him.

With a slight barb aimed more at Giles than at Buffy, Joyce added, “and for the rest of your life.”

Giles smiled with mischievous delight at the thought. “Only I don’t plan on regretting it,” he replied. “The world can stay crazy and mixed-up,” he added, addressing Buffy as well as her mother now. “I know with whom I belong.”

Giles hated leaving Buffy at the hospital, but on one point at least, Joyce was right. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, for the time being, he was not Buffy’s husband, not her family. Joyce was still responsible for Buffy, and he was in no position to argue otherwise. He knew now that he wanted the time being to be as short as possible. He had his strategy for approaching the Council. Tricky and uncertain as it was, it wasn’t likely to improve with age. He’d already had one tentative conversation with Robson on the subject of giving up his family’s claim to a Seat on the Inner Council in exchange for assistance in dealing with problems likely to be created by his impending marriage. He hadn’t told him the Slayer was involved, but Robson was not a stupid man. It had to be among his suspicions.

He took Buffy’s cell phone and called Willow’s house from the hospital parking lot, waiting there for Kendra. “We can watch the most likely points of entry from here,” he told her, but if they get in another way, Buffy and her mother will try to call us.”

“I’m grateful,” Kendra said, when he explained that the hospital would only allow a parent to stay with her, “t’at my Watcher is my legal guardian. We never have t’ose kind of problems.”

“Yes,” Giles said briskly, “I’m sure that’s very handy. I think perhaps one of us should go round and watch the other side of the building.” He didn’t relish the idea of spending the rest of the night pretending to this innocent child that his relationship with Buffy was essentially the same as her relationship with Zabuto.

“Should we have a signal?”she asked, “in the event t’at there is an attack.”

“Shout, ‘vampires’ very loudly,” he said dryly.

Kendra hesitated before saying, “If I may be permitted to say so, Sir, I t’ink you are a very strange Watcher.”

“Everyone has to... erm find their own approach, I suppose,” he answered uncomfortably. This was just the conversation he didn’t want to have with her. “Go,” he said firmly, realizing that, unlike with Buffy, he had the power to end a conversation with Kendra quickly and on his own terms, “find a good spot around back. If nothing happens, we’ll meet here at sunrise.”

****

“Flamethrowers?” Willow repeated skeptically. She was seated with Xander and Cordelia in the otherwise empty computer lab, waiting for first period to start.

“Yeah,” said Cordelia, exasperated, “flamethrowers. And yes, I’m totally serious. Why does everyone have such a problem understanding that?”

“Well...” Willow tried to think of a diplomatic way to answer her.

“How much longer can we hang around here?” Xander wondered aloud. “Won’t Snyder be showing up pretty soon?”

“I doubt it,” Willow assured him. “Yesterday he just came in to each class at some random point in the middle. I think he’s pretty swamped what with grieving parents, terrified kids and trying to hire new teachers.”

“I wouldn’t wish his job even on him,” Xander admitted. “Well... maybe on him, but definitely not on anyone else.”

“I wouldn’t wish working with him on anyone either,” Willow pointed out glumly, “but I still have to do it.”

“Well, Giles is making a huge mistake not coming to school today,” Cordelia said flatly.

“I just hope he remembers Buffy volunteered him to be my mom this afternoon,” Willow fretted, “We’re supposed to be at the police station at three-thirty and it takes a few minutes to do the glamour the first time.”

“Never mind we should be getting ready for this full moon thing,” Cordelia went on as if no one had spoken at all, “I mean, missing work because the girl everybody already thinks you’re sleeping with is in the hospital? Hello? Even Snyder’s not _that_ good at seeing no evil.”

****

The principal cursed silently as he listened again to the phone message the new school nurse had left the night before. She had been talking with some of her colleagues at the hospital. They had a concern about one of his students who had come in to the ER last night... in the company of a certain librarian. These rumors were never going to go away if that idiot kept feeding them. To make matters worse, he had actually called in sick, without being hospitalized himself, for the first time since he’d come to Sunnydale High. It was enough to make Snyder wonder if he’d been wrong after all. The thought was sickening. Teachers being murdered by ghosts and vampires was bad enough, but in Sunnydale you had to make allowances for that sort of thing. But this, the lowest and most prosaic of all scandals, could and should always happen somewhere else.

“Mr. Snyder,” Mrs. Haulk said nervously, sticking her head into her boss’s office as minimally as possible, ready to retreat if necessary, “there’s an... applicant here—”

“If it’s another Goddamned Jesuit,” he said harshly, “tell them the position is filled. I can keep covering Calendar’s classes as long as I have to, and without swimming or basketball, we have too many coaches as it is.”

“Actually,” she clarified, haltingly, backing up a little, “she asked about the English position.”

Snyder sat up a little straighter. “The ad hasn’t even run yet,” he said, puzzled.

“She said she read about the murder in the paper,” Mrs. Haulk explained apologetically.

Snyder thought a moment. Not a single one of his surplus coaches was certified, let alone qualified to teach English. They could keep babysitting Ms. Frank’s classes through the end of the semester if they had to, and he could probably strong arm Mrs. Miller into doing their lesson plans, but it was a black eye to the school to be so weak in the basics. “How does her resume look?” He asked.

“Excellent,” said Mrs. Haulk, “except for the fact that she quit her last job in February with no real explanation.” In the teaching world, that was a pretty big ‘except,’ but people with options were never eager to come to Sunnydale. Unless they were coming to ‘fight evil.’ Frankly he’d rather have someone struggling with a personal or professional crisis. As long as it wasn’t more of the same problem they might already have with Mr. Giles. “She’s been teaching sixteen years,” Mrs. Haulk went on. “Twelve in England and four in San Francisco, all at private girls’ schools. And she has her Masters in both English and Library Science.”

Snyder’s heart leapt, but he was still cautious. “Did she put anything down for criminal history?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Haulk admitted nervously. “Domestic battery. It happened back in... late January, okay that makes sense. Apparently she hit her eighteen-year-old step son with... ‘an oaken staff’? But she’s not on the child-maltreatment registry.”

Snyder smiled. “I like this woman already. What’s her name?”

“Gwendolyn Post,” Mrs. Haulk said haughtily, imitating the woman’s tone and accent, “ _Mrs_.”

****

“You’re sleep deprived,” Joyce declared when Giles explained his plan to both her and Buffy in the hospital parking lot.

“Only a little,” he assured her. “It’s a perfect opportunity. Buffy has a legitimate excuse to miss school, which is important, because there’s no way we can get to Arizona and back, never mind get a license and have the ceremony between 2:30 and 6:00 pm. We can’t wait until her probation begins, because then we’ll need the Court’s permission to leave the state, which is the very thing stopping us from getting married in California in the first place. Granted, there is a bit of risk involved in doing things in this order, that is, not resigning simultaneously, but it’s really the only practical way of getting everything done.”

“Be still, my heart,” Buffy said dryly. “Oh wait, it is. Only you could make a secret, spur-of-the-moment, almost illegal, runaway wedding sound that romantic and exciting.”

“Thank you, darling,” he said a slight acerbic bite to his voice, “you always know just what to say to boost my ego.”

“And this has nothing to do with last night?” Joyce inquired skeptically.

“Oh, it has everything to do with last night,” he assured them both soberly, clasping Buffy’s hand and looking tenderly into her eyes. “I want to be able to protect my family, and not just from vampires.” At the sight of the passion, the anguish, the _longing_ burning beneath his practicality Buffy’s reservations melted. “I know you understand that,” he added piercing Joyce with his steady gaze.

“Please, Mom,” Buffy begged, taking up the cause. She looked so small, so pale, so _vulnerable_. So much like a child. Her bandages were off at least (in record time according to her doctors) but she was wearing long pants, sleeves and a scarf to hide the fresh, ugly scars. “I know things are moving fast, but Giles is right. We need to do this. Practically everyone at school knows about us, and now everyone at the hospital suspects. Even Grampa Wallace thinks he knows, and no telling who he’s told. I need to know that next time there’s a knock at the door, it’s not someone coming to take him away.”

Joyce sighed, “I’ll call Carol and see if she can cover the Gallery one more day.” With a small scream of joy, Buffy threw her arms around her mother.

“Thank you,” Mr. Giles said warmly, looking her steadily in the eyes again.

“Just get in the car,” Joyce said resignedly, “before I change my mind.”

****

The class was working quietly when Snyder slipped in. Rosenberg was sitting at the teacher’s desk not four feet from the door, but she was too absorbed in her computer screen to notice him. He looked over her shoulder. Flamethrowers? Flamethrowers. From a how-to perspective.“New project?” he asked acidly. The girl actually jumped. She gave a startled little cry that ended in a miserable strangled whine. “Outside,” he ordered with suppressed heat. “We need to talk.”

“What are you planning?” he demanded in a hard, quiet voice as soon as the door was closed.

“Nothing,” Rosenberg mewled. “I was just... doing some research for History class?” She gave a pathetic, terrified imitation of a winning smile.

Snyder laughed incredulously. He’d have probably gone with Science. “This I have to hear,” he said. He listened with grim amusement as she described the theme she was writing for Mr. Miller’s fifth period American History class tracing the influence of World War II military nostalgia on the rise of contemporary fringe-right paramilitary groups. It was actually a plausible explanation, and he might have believed her if she had been able to meet his eyes or speak in a normal tone of voice.

“Ask... Cordelia!” she said finally, desperately. “She’s my research partner.”

“Actually,” said Snyder coolly, “I think I’ll ask Mr. Miller.”

“Okay,” said Willow miserably, hoping for divine intervention. “I’ll just get back to class then.”

“Report to my office at morning break,” he instructed her grimly.

Willow’s stomach was in such turmoil all through second period that for once she was glad Coach Davis didn’t know how to conduct an English class and had better sense than to try. More fortunately still, he didn’t try to regiment everyone like Hawkins.“Come on,” Xander tried to reassure her, “what are they gonna do?”

“Revoke my bail, and keep me in jail for at least a month,” said Willow glumly.

“Oh,” said Xander soberly. “But, I mean...other than that...” he tried to joke.

Willow gave him a look. “It’s still a good idea,” she said seriously, “I’ve been researching, and they’re not that hard to make. Having enough fuel is the main issue, besides, you know, making sure they don’t blow up and kill you while you’re trying to use them. Plus, you only have to be about medium strong. You and Cordelia could do it. And Giles. Then we’d have five fighters instead of just two.”

“Giles with a flamethrower,” Xander grinned, picturing it, “now that’s something I’d like to see.”

“As a change from the boring, normal way he’s been acting lately,” said Willow with mild sarcasm.

“Yeah, that I don’t want to see,” said Xander.

“Oh no,” said Willow, perhaps a touch too emphatically, “not me either! So, I went ahead and reread Othello in case we had a real sub today, do you want to talk about it?”

“Ummmmmm, No!” said Xander grinning, “But if you want you can do my Chemistry homework.”Willow shrugged and he handed it over. She was dimly aware of the not-rightness of the fact that she might be spending her last hour as a free person for the next month doing someone else’s homework, but she truly didn’t mind. It made her feel more like herself than she had in three weeks.

She still felt like herself when she walked into the office and knocked on Snyder’s door, but not in a good way. She felt tiny and weak and guilty and terrified.“Come in!” he commanded crossly. He looked as sour as he sounded. Mr. Miller was perched on the edge of his desk grinning.

“Principal Snyder was just telling me about the depth of research you’re putting into your History paper,” Miller said, eyes twinkling. Willow’s heart swelled with hope and gratitude. Maybe God wasn’t so mad at her after all. “I’m really looking forward to reading it,” he added, grinning even more. “In fact, if you’re planning on using models in your demonstration, I might have a few suggestions. Why don’t you and Cordelia both see me at lunch?”

****

The wedding party started out about nine-thirty, after one brief stop by the house on Revello Drive to get Buffy’s birth certificate and swallow a quick bite of breakfast. It crossed Buffy’s mind that she ought to change clothes, but there was no way in Hell that she was going to wear the one white dress she had hanging in her closet, and if that was out, she guessed she might as well wear pants.

Joyce drove, heading east on I8, towards Yuma. The happy couple sat in the back. They spent the first hour holding hands, murmuring things she wasn’t supposed to hear and giggling to one another. Joyce tried to tamp down her bitterness towards Rupert Giles by reminding herself that they’d both be dead now if it wasn’t for this man and of the obvious devotion he’d shown in keeping watch all night to make sure Buffy was safe. She thanked God for the mandatory seatbelt law, which she felt sure was the only thing keeping them from becoming far cuddlier than she was willing to tolerate. Finally, the old bastard fell asleep. Buffy lay back in the seat with her head on his arm, resting but awake. ‘I must have lost my mind,’ Joyce thought. They drove on in silence for another half hour. Vast expanses of desert flew past them. “You know you don’t have to do this,” she said quietly at last, without taking her eyes off the road. “I’ll help you, with the baby, with school, slaying... demons, whatever.”

“Mom, I love him,” Buffy told her. “This is just about the only thing in my life that I _do_ want. And, no offense, but he’s a lot more help fighting demons than you are.”

“He was a lot of help last night,” Joyce had to admit. “I suppose that won’t be the last we hear from Angel,” she added grimly.

“I guess not,” Buffy said pensively, her brow furrowed.

“What?” Joyce asked.

“Okay,” Buffy said, “this is going to sound crazy, but I don’t think Angel was behind what happened last night. It just... wasn’t his style. I mean, he doesn’t just want me dead, he wants to break me. He wants to see me suffer. I still have a lot left to loose and he knows it. Anyway, even if he decided to cut to the chase, he’d want to do it himself, or at least be there to watch.”

“So who do you think it is?” Joyce asked worriedly.

“It’s Spike!” Buffy said with sudden realization. “He must be recovering faster than I thought. And now, with Drusilla gone, there’s nothing keeping them together except fighting me, which, even there they don’t agree on what they’re trying to do. Whatever’s supposed to go down at the Hellmouth in the next couple of days must be Angel’s deal. Spike’s trying to beat him to the punch and get his throne back.”

“By having you killed?” Joyce asked bleakly.

“Yeah,” Buffy said. “See with Angel, it’s all about the brush strokes. Spike just wants results. He’s hired people (and other things) to kill me before. I bet the mouthy blond one was the contractor and all the others worked for her.”

“Have I told you lately how much I hate all this?” Joyce said.

“No more than I do,” Buffy assured her.

“So why can’t you quit?” Joyce asked hopefully. “There _is_ only supposed to be one Slayer, right? And Kendra’s already here. I mean, you’ve already died once; haven’t you done your duty? Even the army doesn’t ask more than that.”

Buffy shook her head. “Nice try, Mom, but who’s going to convince the vamps I’m retired? Besides, from what Giles says, I think the Council is digging the extra fire power. I’m just glad they haven’t seen _Flatliners_.”Joyce shuttered. Buffy was joking of course but she wondered.... How much did they really know about the Council, other that the fact that it seemed to go through a lot of Slayers? The only member they had any contact with was the one asleep in the back seat, and he didn’t give Joyce the overall impression of being exceedingly straightforward. Even at that, it was pretty clear that he’d buried at least one girl in Buffy’s position back in Seattle. Regardless of the circumstances, this was not an endearing quality in a son-in-law, or a husband for that matter. However sophisticated Buffy now thought she was, her mother knew that she tended to trust people and take things at face value a lot more than she should.

She came by it honestly. Even at almost forty, Joyce found it hard to be as skeptical as she knew she ought to be to protect herself. Of course, the tendency manifested itself differently at her age than it had at seventeen. Joyce tended to keep a polite distance from everyone, knowing better than to trust her own trusting instincts. And yet, in the past year or so, she’d still managed to embrace a lovely little town that turned out to be the Capital City of Evil, date a serial killer (who turned out to be a robot) and lay out the welcome mat for a ‘caring, involved faculty member’ who’d ended up getting her daughter pregnant and involving her in mortal combat. Even last night, she hadn’t thought twice about letting that ‘girl’ in her house _knowing_ what went bump in the night. Maybe it was time to stop reading self help books about opening your heart again after divorce, and start learning how to do a better job of keeping those walls up.

****

Spike worked even harder at keeping busy Monday night and Tuesday morning than he had the night and day before. With the bulk of the risers rising and the rest of the troops getting restless, it wasn’t hard to find something to do. Still, his mind kept drifting back to places he didn’t want it to. When midday came, he let one of the nameless females ‘keep him company’. It felt good to get off, but it didn’t help anything. He still missed Drusilla. He still wanted Harmony. He still hungered for vengeance and thirsted for the blood of the Slayer. He still longed for death.

Vengeance first he decided, death later. It didn’t really work the other way round. He went up to the Church to get a report from Edwards and do a final head count. Of the spawn from Friday night, twenty-two had risen, counting Tiffany and Harmony. Four more still looked like good prospects. Two were starting to decompose. “Probably too much human in me by the time I got to them,” Spike guessed, his tone professionally critical, “should have let you pitch in sooner.”

“That brings our current strength to forty-two, hopefully forty-six soon enough.”Edwards informed him.

Spike shook his head. “Forty. We had a defection from the sewer junction and Axel; over at the pump station got himself poofed for trying to bend over the wrong bint. I had to swap his mates out with the junction bunch to stop them getting in a war with her lot over it.”

“They’ll never last another two and a half weeks like this,” said Edwards worriedly.

“They need a little shore leave,” Spike agreed, “but it’s too risky right now.”

“Only if they do it in Sunnydale,” Edwards pointed out.

“Well if they go much further,” Spike argued, “we’ll be leaving ourselves wide open for a Slayer attack.”

“It’s a pity we didn’t find out about last night in time to do anything,” Edwards lamented.

“Don’t remind me,” Spike snorted. “We have got to cultivate some better sources of intelligence. You know those wankers at the hospital knew it was her by eight o’clock last night and they didn’t bother to tell anyone ‘til they went off shift at four in the morning?! Morons!”

“Well she’s right as rain by now,” said Edwards glumly. “We could send them four at a time,” he suggested, turning his attention back to the problem at hand. “That leaves us at ninety percent strength and there’s time for everyone to go once before the ritual and be back in time for the last virgin hunt.”

“Brilliant,” Spike agreed. “They can go to Tijuana. It’s two hours closer than L.A., and everyone will blame it on the drug lords.”

“We should have them bring back some sleepers, too” Edwards suggested.

“That might make for some tricky border crossings,” Spike pointed out.

Edwards shrugged, “so they’ll need to kill a few border guards. That should give the FBI and the State Police something better to do than chase after the ‘Sunnydale Butcher.’”

“Actually,” Spike ruminated, “that’s who we should be siring. Police. Military types. We need more trained fighters on our side.”

“No doubt,” Edwards agreed. “No one’s seen hide nor hair of Sunday or any of her minions since they attacked the Slayer last night. It seems she killed them all.”

“Nine vamps at once,” Spike noted soberly, “granted most of them were idiots, and they did put her in the hospital....”

“...but that’s still world class Slaying,” Edwards agreed, “and now, with the other one coming to town...”

“They have their own witches too,” Spike pointed out. “That could be a factor. And even Watcher-man’s not totally useless as long as he has his cross bow. Her mum’s a right bitch when she’s riled come to that.”

Edwards laughed. “I bet she is riled too.”

Spike grinned. “Mum’s get that way when daughters get the other way,” he agreed, “especially with their old-enough-to-know-betters.”

“Who knows,” said Edwards, mock philosophically, “maybe we’ll luck out and they’ll kill each other.”

“That’d certainly distract her,” Spike agreed, enjoying the fantasy, “and make her miserable.”

“Better still,” Edwards invented, “she could get killed in the crossfire.”

Spike laughed again, “I can see the headline, ‘Pregnant Teen Killed by Shotgun Blast, Crossbow Bolt; Mother, Librarian in Custody.’”

Edwards chuckled. “We should be so lucky.”

“Nah,” said Spike, “If we were _that_ lucky everything’d be too easy. We’d get bored.”

“I think I could stand to be bored for a while,” said Edwards, maybe a little too seriously. The strain of the situation was getting to him too Spike realized.

“You want the first trip?” he offered, “Go for that moonlight drive after all?”

Edwards sighed. “I think I’ll pass. My girl just started talking to me again. I don’t want to push my luck.”

Spike shook his head. “Why do you stay with her?” he asked wonderingly.

Edwards snorted with amusement and mild derision. “You, of all creatures, shouldn’t have to ask me that,” he pointed out.

Spike said nothing for a moment. This conversation was becoming not fun, not funny. “We’ll draw lots,” he said finally, changing the topic back to something practical. “Two winners can each take someone with them. Draw every night till they’ve all gone.”

“Draw tonight, first trip tomorrow?” Edwards suggested. “They can take Willy’s old delivery van, stack the sleepers in the back.”

Spike nodded his agreement. “All expense paid round trip to the cheap side of paradise.”

****

“‘The Shangri-La Jade China Garden Palace of Paradise?’” Buffy read doubtfully from the pealing wooden sign. The tiny concrete building stood alone beside the desert highway, it’s minty green paint flaking in the merciless sun to reveal layers of blistering orange and ocean blue beneath.

“It looks... okay,” said Joyce, trying to be optimistic, wishing she’d thought to stop in El Centro.

“Well we have to eat somewhere,” Buffy declared decisively. “I’m starving, and my stomach does not like to be empty.”

Joyce felt a fresh stab of resentment at the man sleeping in the back seat. She wanted her daughter to be not pregnant, not married, not in trouble with the law or with some mystical Council or with the Forces of Evil. Really she blamed him for all of it, and except just maybe for the Forces of Evil, she couldn’t see that she was being the least bit unfair. “We could just leave him in the car,” she said aloud.

Buffy laughed and rolled her eyes. “Hey! Sleeping Beauty,” she said, poking him in the tweed coated chest, “time for lunch.”

He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “If you’re going to call me that,” he murmured, “you ought to at least wake me with a kiss, not a jab to the ribcage.” She did. It was a more-or-less innocent little kiss, except for who was doing the kissing. The worst part was how much he clearly enjoyed it. He looked so _pleased_ with himself. Joyce wondered for the thousandth time if she was making a mistake to facilitate this marriage. Every instinct she had as a mother told her not to turn her child over to this person, but when she tried to see a practical alternative, one that would actually result in a situation that was better for Buffy, she kept coming up short. He did seem to care for her, but Joyce knew too well that that didn’t necessarily mean he could be trusted. ‘Trust _me_ ,’ Buffy had said, but it was hard to do when she was so clearly making decisions that were against her best interests, and so clearly relying on him to help her make them. Thankfully, the business in the back seat ended with the one kiss and a slight snuggle. Joyce didn’t think she could have taken much more than that. In fact, Mr. Giles himself seemed a little embarrassed when he opened his eyes to find her standing by the car watching them impatiently. He made a sort of coughing noise. “Well... yes. Lunch. Right,” he fumbled, trying, it seemed to Joyce, to reset his thoughts to something more appropriate. He and Buffy piled out of the car, still holding hands for all that.

“What am I supposed to call you?” Joyce said, her voice betraying only moderate annoyance.

“Beg pardon?” he asked seeming genuinely puzzled and apprehensive.

“I can’t very well call my son-in-law Mr. Giles,” she pointed out.

Giles remained unsettled for a moment. How extraordinarily odd to think of an attractive younger woman as one’s mother-in-law! As for her question, he could hardly make sense of it. Was this some subtle hint that she did not want her ‘son-in-law’ to call her ‘Joyce’? He wondered what else he was supposed to call her. “What’s wrong with Rupert?” he asked finally feeling just a little rankled.

“I’m pretty sure I have a list somewhere,” she replied with a thin smile.

“Am I going to have to separate you two?” Buffy asked, already standing between them in point of fact. She was only half joking.

“I thought I was being quite civil,” said Giles, failing to keep a slightly petulant tone out of his voice. Joyce snorted derisively but said nothing. He felt certain she was trying at least half consciously to pick a fight with him. It annoyed him. It was immature. He didn’t see the sense in it. She had already agreed to give him Buffy’s hand (under some duress admittedly); and he felt she should be doing more to make the best of the occasion. After all, it was, presumably, the only wedding day Buffy was ever going to have. He resented not being able to make it as festive and romantic as possible under the rushed circumstances. As it was, he could hardly kiss his intended bride without being blistered by her mother’s disapproving gaze.

“Look,” said Buffy, getting frustrated and a little upset, “let’s just get something to eat, alright? We’re going to be late getting back as it is.”

Giles glanced at his watch as he opened the restaurant door for the two women. It was nearly twelve o’clock and they were still forty-five miles from Yuma. Besides applying for the license, they still needed two gold rings, a qualified officiant and hopefully some flowers. Then of course, there was the ceremony itself and the three hour journey back to Sunnydale. They’d be lucky to make it back by six o’clock. Suddenly, he realized the implications of the fact that making it back ‘on time’ was even a concern. As Joyce had a brief exchange with the elderly Chinese woman who was running the place, he leaned over and whispered in Buffy’s ear, “Where exactly _are_ we expecting to spend the night?”

Buffy gave him a weak smile. “At Mom’s?” she said. Giles took a deep breath and pressed his fingers to his temples as they were shown to their table and the old woman left to have a lengthy chat with the only other occupied table, which appeared to be her own family. He knew it was probably the best of a bad lot of options. Buffy had to take a certain amount of risk with her PTR to fulfill her duties as a Slayer, but he shouldn’t keep asking her to break curfew just to sleep in his bed, especially now that there was much less danger that each moment together could be their last. It was only for a few weeks he reminded himself. When Buffy’s probation was set up in April, she could give them her new address and marital status. By then the Council would have learned of the marriage one way or another and eclipsed the courts as the chief source of their troubles. In the mean time, if Revello Drive was where Buffy had to be, then there he would be also.

“Ooo look!” said Buffy, trying to get everyone talking about something a little lighter, “they have those placemats with the Chinese Zodiac thing. What animal are you, Giles?”

“White Metal Rabbit,” he said, without looking. They both looked at him, eyebrows cocked, waiting for an explanation. “I had a... erm... friend at one time who was very into Chinese Astrology. The animal is the main bit, but the element and the color add nuance.”

Buffy could tell Joyce was biting her tongue about Giles and his previous ‘friends,’ though it would have been pretty ridiculous to expect a man his age not to have had ‘friends’ or to go very far out of his way not to mention them. “What about you, Mom, what are you?” she prompted, trying to keep the conversation moving.

“1958...” Joyce murmured. It was Giles’ turn to bite his tongue, which he did, looking horrified, though of course he’d known, if he’d only thought about it, that his soon-to-be mother-in-law was not yet forty years old. In fact, her birthday was coming up around the same time as Buffy’s court appearance. He supposed he owed her one hell of a gift.

“A Dog?” Joyce was saying, disappointedly.

“Not like a dog, dog,” Buffy reasoned. “Look it says it means you’re loyal, honest, and have an open, giving nature, especially with your friends.”

“Like a dog,” Joyce pointed out.

“Dog not bad sign,” the old woman assured her, coming over to take their order. “I’m Dog. Get along with everybody. Not work too hard. Best way to be. My husband, he Horse. Take everything too serious. Die of heart attack, forty-year-old.” There was not much anyone could say to that. They ordered their food and she left.

“Well that sucks,” said Buffy, pouting a little, “I’m a Rooster, right, which says, ‘never marry a Rabbit, they only bring trouble.’” Joyce tried to keep her face as neutral as possible. It really wasn’t funny. Really it wasn’t.

“It’s a place mat, Buffy” Giles pointed out, then, thinking for a moment he added, “Anyhow, you’re not a Cock. You were born in January, before the Chinese New Year. That makes you a Monkey.”

“Oh, whew,” she said, swiping the back of her hand over her forehead, playfully feigning deep relief, “I guess I’ll marry you after all, then.” He took her hand under the table and they smiled at each other. He chose not to tell her that Monkeys and Rabbits weren’t considered very compatible either. Nor that, despite how simplified and westernized everything else on the placemat was, compatibility of signs was something large numbers of people took quite seriously.

Joyce cleared her throat exactly as if they were groping one another on a busy street corner. Giles worked very hard at not giving her a look. Buffy glared at her hard enough for the both of them, but she let go of his hand. So long a moment passed that it was almost too late to comment, before Buffy (suddenly near angry tears) said, “Damn it, Mom, this is my wedding day. Do you want me to be happy or not?”

Joyce closed her eyes, which didn’t stop them twitching like those of an epileptic patient on the verge of a major seizure. “I’m here, aren’t I,” she said tightly, “driving through the middle of the Goddamn desert with this... person... so you can marry him behind your father’s back and against state law. How far do you expect me to go to make you happy, Buffy?”

“You could quit trying to make us feel like crap about it for a start,” Buffy snapped back. “You could try to be happy for me, even.”

“Oh, I’m happy!” Joyce shot back, “My pregnant, seventeen-year-old daughter is marrying a teacher nearly old enough to be her _grandfather_ , who’s gotten himself crosswise with some kind of deep, dark, powerful secret society in between getting interviewed in ‘more than his fair share’ of homicide investigations! Why shouldn’t I be happy?!”

“Jesus Christ, Mom,” Buffy hissed between clenched teeth, “keep your voice down.” The restaurateur’s relatives were staring openly at them now, whispering in two languages, both of which Giles understood well enough to know that they mostly thought Joyce was crazy. The old woman herself said nothing. She walked back into the kitchen, affording her family the chance to say even more unpleasant things about _her_.

Having said her piece, Joyce calmed very slightly and was more than a little embarrassed to find herself the object of scrutiny. “Will you excuse me,” she said, oddly politely, apparently to Giles, blinking back tears. Before he could quite work out how to respond, she got up and headed for the ladies’ room, looking, he presumed, for a more private place to regain her composure.

The second she was gone, Buffy attacked him. “Way to back me up!” she scolded, low and bitter.

“What could I have said,” he replied with quiet tension, “that would have done anything but make her more angry? From her point of view,” he pointed out, finding a calmer if slightly condescending tone, “this—all of this, vampires to grandchildren—has happened in a week.”

“Fine,” Buffy fumed, angered as much by the fact that he was right as by the tone he was taking with her. Again. “Take _her_ side. See what that gets you tonight?”

Giles exhaled and looked up at the ceiling. Petulant threats of sexual starvation—the go-to defensive maneuver of the immature human female—were the one thing he’d missed least about being young. It was tiresome. Sex was actually just about the farthest thing from him mind. He was imagining spending the next three to five years of his life married to a child, enduring her tantrums, waiting for her to grow up. Part of him knew that he was being unfair to Buffy in thinking that. Part of him didn’t care. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He took his glasses off and rubbed his temples. “I don’t know why you want to fight with me,” he said, “but, on today of all days, I’d rather not. We love each other. We’re getting married. Your mother is helping us, even though she’s not exactly turning cartwheels over it. Let’s just all, please, try to get along and you and I try to enjoy ourselves.”

“Deal,” Buffy agreed sort of grudgingly/mock grudgingly, reaching for his hand again. He squeezed hers tight.

“I do love you, you know,” he said warmly, “very, very much.”

“I know,” she sighed happy-sadly, laying her head on his shoulder, letting him run his fingers through her hair. Her stomach was bothering her. She was tired. They seemed to be no nearer to getting anything to eat then when they had stopped. The old woman had left the kitchen, following Joyce to the restroom, and her relatives seemed to be on a permanent break.

To distract herself, Buffy started looking at the placemat again. “So everyone in my class is either a Monkey, if they’re older than me or a Rooster if they’re younger?”

“Essentially,” Giles confirmed.

So that meant she and Xander and Willow were all Monkeys and therefore should have about the same personality. That was almost enough to unsuspend her disbelief right there. Then again, the Rooster (vain, selfish, obsessed with getting ahead) sounded exactly like Cordelia, and in a totally different way, probably a lot like Amy too. “Oh crap!” said Buffy, no longer worried about the placemat, “we’re supposed to be at Willow’s at three o’clock.”

****

“Are we in trouble?” Willow asked nervously.

“Not with me,” Mr. Miller assured her in his deep, even, fatherly voice. It contained, as usual, a very slight hint of amusement at some joke only he was in on.

Cordelia sighed and rolled her eyes, hand on hip, too impatient to listen for nuances. “Whatever,” she said, “can we go. I’m supposed to be having my ‘one sensible meal’ already.”

“An army marches on its stomach,” said Mr. Miller darkly, in a way that somehow seemed to imply he was agreeing with her about something. Cordelia’s attention shifted from her empty stomach and slightly too full waistline.

Willow forced a laugh, “Who said anything about an army?” she squeaked.

Mr. Miller raised one very amused eyebrow. “ _I_ did,” he said matter-of-factly. He was not amused at all when he added, “I can count the empty desks. I know a war when I see one, even a secret war, even a quiet war.... And, as Miss Chase points out,” he went on, amused again, but still serious, “‘the hour is getting late.’ What do you need?”he asked.

“Flamethrowers,” said Cordelia matter-of-factly, “or anything else handy for clearing an entrenched army out of a lot of caves and tunnels.”

“How soon?” he asked grimly.

“By Thursday night,” Cordelia replied. She didn’t seem to notice that Mr. Miller had never asked, ‘an army of what.’

Willow noticed. It made her nervous. “You’re not... a part of some... secret society, by any chance?” she asked, failing at sounding casual.

“Oh yes,” he assured her, eyes twinkling in his bearded face again, “pentagrams, candles, ancient mysteries, you’d be amazed.”

“You’re not a Gypsy?” Willow asked doubtfully.

That got an actual laugh. “Of course not,” Mr. Miller said, “I’m a Historian.”

****

“You do right thing,” Joyce heard as she bent to splash water on her face in the bathroom sink. She looked up to find the old woman looking at her in a way she was guiltily forced to think of as inscrutable. The words themselves where clear enough in their implication.

“You heard all that?” she concluded, embarrassed.

“Hear enough,” the old woman admitted. “Not matter. Man, girl go to Yuma City middle day, middle week, always same reason. You do right thing,” she repeated firmly. “Hide shame. Not good match, still good decision.”

“Excuse me?” said Joyce, somewhere between confused and offended.

“Beautiful daughter, always trouble,” the woman explained patiently, “but Monkey child think _everything_ joke. Tiger, think he Rabbit, not know anything, not understand. Mother know. It not joke. Disgrace, even in California. But, daughter get married, make things better. He father, not father, what age, when marry? Year, two year, three year; who know? Who ask? They get divorce, not disgrace. Not in California. So, you do right thing.”

“Thanks,” Joyce said tiredly, picking the one solid affirmation out of the word salad. “I’m glad somebody thinks so.”

“Your family say you do wrong thing,” the woman concluded, “want you call police, maybe? ‘From the government, here to help,’” she laughed a little at her own joke. “That never help, only more disgrace, more bitterness. You do right thing. Little Monkey have babies, need mother, not police.

“Old Tiger need mother also. Like Peter Pan. Very sad story. Make little girl mother, not help.” She shook her head sadly. “Try to be Rabbit, not help. Demons not help for sure.” Joyce blinked, not sure if she could trust what she was hearing. Surely there was no way the old woman could really know. She must mean ‘demons’ in the sense of psychological issues or proverbial skeletons. She was doing nothing more than offering her amateur pseudo Freudian assessment of the sort of man who would marry a girl Buffy’s age.

“I’d better be getting back,” Joyce said hurriedly, suddenly eager to end the conversation for reasons she didn’t entirely understand. She _was_ embarrassed by this stranger’s poking around in the dark corners of her family life, but it was more than that.

“I say too much,” said the old woman, remaining uncomfortably blunt. “Silly old woman, shut up, bring food, you think.”

“No, of course not,” Joyce answered politely.

“Alright. I go,” the old woman assured her cheerfully. “Not let food get cold.” But when Joyce came out, their food was already being brought to the table. Her future son-in-law was still arguing (in Chinese) with the acting waiter, who gave the impression of having been pressed into service against his will and seemed to be on the verge of revolt. The old woman silenced him with a few sharp words gesturing towards Buffy. His reply was short but contrite. Aiming something between a deep nod and a shallow bow at the room in general, then a slightly deeper dip directly at Buffy, he hurriedly left the restaurant.

Buffy looked up from poking at her broccoli beef lo mein, the picture of misery. “I know I ordered this,” she said to Joyce. “And it’s not like there’s anything wrong with it. It’s exactly like I wanted it.”

“But you don’t want it,” said Joyce sympathetically. “Do you want this?” she asked, offering her chicken fried rice. They traded. The interaction was essentially a mutual apology. Nobody had to say so.

Giles took his seat again, smoothing his suit front and muttering, still ruffled, still trying not to be. “Poor Giles,” said Buffy, patting his hand. “He had to _insist_ on getting me something to eat before I fell out on the floor. It was very manly.”

“Thank you, dear,” he said dryly, getting his blood pressure under control. “It’s nice to know I’m good for something once in a while,” he added, managing a smile in spite of the fact that he felt he had to refrain from giving her even a small kiss on the forehead. Joyce managed a not-too-forced-looking smile herself. At least she was making an effort for Buffy’s sake. He guessed he could try equally hard to make it easier on Joyce, for the same reason.

As soon as they finished eating, Buffy tried to call Willow’s again. Still no answer. Kendra was either a sound sleeper or, more likely, she’d gone out looking for something useful to do. She left messages for her and for Cordelia, who probably had her phone with her, even if it wasn’t turned on. By the time they got back on the road it was after one o’clock. Joyce still wanted to drive and Giles was still willing to let her. He had only slept an hour and with food in his stomach, he was tempted to nod off again, but he didn’t want to be fuzzy headed when they got to the courthouse.

Joyce was glad to put the ‘Shangri-La Jade China Garden Palace of Paradise’ behind her. Something about that old woman.... She seemed nice enough, well meaning, but so... intrusive.

“I vote we don’t stop there again,” Buffy said. “The place creeps me.”

“Yes,” Giles agreed tiredly, “I dislike having my mind read, especially by strangers.” He said it exactly the way you would say, ‘I hate going to the dentist.’

“What?” said Joyce flabbergasted.

“The old lady!” Buffy exclaimed, “I _knew_ it! I thought I was imaging it.”

“She was rather heavy footed about it,” Giles agreed. “Also, her family was talking the whole time about whether or not she was reading us and whether she was going to tell them what she read.”

“What?” Joyce repeated. She couldn’t get over how unnaturally natural they both were with the supernatural.

“It’s not terribly surprising,” Giles expounded, “0.5% of Han Chinese women are psychic, you know. And, of course, the proportion is three to four times higher among those who got out ahead of the revolution.”

“How do you know that?” Joyce asked.

“That’s what he does,” Buffy explained cheerfully, leaning into him just a little. “He knows things; I kill things. Sometimes we mix and match.”

“I’ve been actively studying and researching occult and paranormal phenomena for thirty-seven years,” he clarified, “beginning with a knowledge base built up by the Watchers Council over the course of millennia. So yes, as Buffy says, it’s what I do.”

Joyce subtracted thirty-seven from forty-seven, mildly horrified on his behalf. Of course, she’d been told that Watchers ran in families, but there was something incredibly sad about the thought of a ten-year-old child being told that monsters were real and that he’d be expected to spend the rest of his life dealing with them. The old (apparently psychic) Chinese woman had compared him to Peter Pan, but it sounded more like the other way round to Joyce. More like Buffy, she realized, too grown up too soon.

She kept her thoughts on the subject to herself. There was enough negative energy among them without dragging up the details of everyone’s difficult childhoods. This _was_ Buffy’s wedding day, Joyce reminded herself, for better or for worse. She guessed she ought to try to be happy, or at least cheerful. “So are we going to the courthouse first or am I looking for a jewelry store,” Joyce asked.

“I think we’d better get the license first,” Giles pointed out. “It’s getting late in the day for official business. We don’t want to get sidetracked. Then I think we should look for a wedding chapel. Once we know what’s included, we’ll know what else we need. Erm... don’t you think so, Dear?” he added, sensing a certain stiffness in Buffy’s body that told him she was on the verge of resenting not being more actively consulted.

Buffy shrugged. “Yeah, I guess,” she mumbled, slightly sullenly.

He put his arm around her, suppressing a sigh. “What’s wrong?” he said.

“It’s just...” Buffy tried to find the words to explain. “We’re getting married and that’s the important thing, I get that, I really, really do, it’s just...”

“You wanted to have more of a wedding,” he concluded.

“Or more of a wedding day,” she said. “I mean, Willow’s not here. Xander’s not here. _Dad’s_ not here. And I’m never going to have _that_ day where I get to plan all the plans and choose all the choices and everyone can look at me and say ‘oh you’re so beautiful, and grown-up, we’re so proud of you.’ Never, like not ever. And maybe I _wanted_ a bread maker and a set of china and way way too many crock pots, and Aunt Darlene driving us crazy trying to take everything over and Aunt Arlene driving us crazy trying to stop her, you know? I mean, other girls get honeymoons in Tahiti and I have to get back to my Mom’s house in time for a court ordered curfew, barring attacks by demons. And I totally get that it shouldn’t matter, but it does.”

“Of course it does,” said Giles supportively, validating everything Buffy was feeling. Joyce silently thanked God that he ‘got’ it. Hank never would have. “I’m sorry this has to be so rushed,” he went on. “We are going to try to make it as romantic as possible, but if you want to have a formal wedding later on, you know there’s nothing that says we can’t.”

“I don’t know,” Buffy said, obviously feeling a little better, but not much. “Something this big is done when it’s done. I don’t think I can really see restaging the whole thing.”

“Fair enough,” Giles said.“We could still go to Tahiti,” he added.

“While I’m still on probation,” Buffy asked skeptically, “or when I’m about to give birth any second?”

“Probably not this year,” he admitted. “Maybe a year from Christmas?”

“Trust me,” Joyce said “you’ll need a vacation more as parents than you ever will as newlyweds.”

Buffy laughed out loud. “Parents! God! Are we each trying to live four lives at once or are we up to five?”

“Lord knows I can’t keep up,” Giles acknowledged. “No matter how many things we manage to do at once, it always seems we’re forgetting something.”

****

Kendra knocked on Mr. Giles’ door a few times before ringing the bell again. She tried the knob, but it was locked. It was after one p.m. If he had gone home and to bed just after sunrise as she had, he should surely be up by now, ready to plan and prepare for the battle ahead. Of course, he had probably checked in on Buffy first, but that shouldn’t have taken long. Her injuries should have healed substantially over night. Maybe he’d gone to the library after all. That would be the best place to look for him, Kendra decided. If nothing else, Buffy’s friends could tell her where he was likely to be. Despite having absolutely no official status or need to know, they always seemed to know exactly what was really going on. Kendra rarely felt that she did, especially in Sunnydale.

For the better part of a year now, she had been going forth into the world and slaying demons. For the most part, the slaying wasn’t hard or complicated. It was the going forth. For one thing, it was a lot harder not to talk to strange men—or any men—when you had places to go and things to get done other than study and train. They made her nervous. She felt strangely less effective when they were around. Especially men who were not Watchers. Especially young men close to her own age. Like Xander.

For that matter, she didn’t find it all that easy to talk to young women either. Especially young women who were confident around young men, young women whose whole lives were invested in the complicated game of social interaction that seems to take place entirely among girls but to somehow have everything to do with boys. Young women like Cordelia.

Cordelia made Kendra feel as though they were engaged in some form of hostilities in which victory was impossible, surrender was not an option and the tactics were such that it was impossible even to know for certain when you were being attacked. To acknowledge that there were hostilities in progress seemed to be a gross violation of the rules of engagement. Worst of all, Kendra had no idea what the actual object of this subtle struggle was. It was not Xander, or any particular boy, at least not directly. At least, she didn’t think so.

Kendra had done everything in her power, despite all her instincts as a Slayer, to make it clear that, in this particular war, she was a noncombatant. It didn’t seem to matter. Cordelia still treated her (subtly, politely) like an enemy. Willow, for that matter, treated her like she _might_ be an enemy, like a dangerous stranger who couldn’t be entirely trusted. Again, she was polite, but the discomfort with which she opened her home to her unwelcome guest was not subtle. The reasons didn’t seem to be the same. In fact, she truly had no idea what Willow’s reasons were.

Regardless of the reasons, Buffy was the only person in Sunnydale, or anywhere, who had ever made her feel like she might actually have a friend. Being the Slayer was starting to make her feel like she might need one.

Kendra walked on to the campus of Sunnydale High, casually and openly, trying to give the impression that she belonged there. The side door to the library was locked, so she came in through the front. The main hallway was deserted. Everyone was in class. It made it easy for the coach (he was wearing sweats and a whistle) who suddenly came around the corner to notice that she was out of place.

“You there,” Hawkins called to the student, if she was a student, “where’s your hall pass?” She was a young Black female, stunningly attractive but dressed more appropriately for an aerobics studio than a classroom. He didn’t recognize her and he thought he should have. There were less than a dozen Black students at Sunnydale.

“My... hall pass...?” the girl stammered, stalling. He didn’t recognize her accent either, but it wasn’t from California and neither was she.

“You don’t go to school here,” he challenged, “what are you doing on this campus?”

Kendra didn’t know what to say. She could have told him it was an emergency, but then he would have wanted to know what kind. “I’m... looking for my boyfriend,” she said finally, embarrassed, looking down at her shoes.

Hawkins had the contrary impressions that the girl was painfully innocent and up to no good. She was also lying to him, or at least not telling him the truth. “What’s his name?” he demanded. She looked up at him pitifully. Miserably. Huge baby deer eyes. “You have one minute to get off this campus before I call the police,” he told her. He knew he was violating the new security policy by not identifying her. He hoped it was one good deed that might go unpunished. She seemed like a harmless kid.

“T’ank you,” Kendra muttered trying to be gracious and not express her exasperation. She left. According to what Willow had said, Mr. Giles should be off work by four o’clock. She knew she should go back to Willow’s house and await his instructions. A good Slayer is always patient and obedient. But Kendra felt impatient. Something was going on. She didn’t know what it was. She didn’t like it. And, of course, she reminded herself, a good Slayer is also resourceful, watchful and proactive. She hadn’t been told to await further instructions. She hadn’t been told anything to speak of. Except that Angelus was off the ‘home team’ and planning some dark ritual with Spike and the blood of a dozen murdered virgins. Even if she could have spoken to Mr. Giles, he seemed to be sadly lacking in information about what they could expect with the rise of the full moon.

Information. That was the key to the problem. Considering the particular vampires involved, she had an idea where she might find some.

****

“You’re doing the right thing here, Chris,” Chief Deputy Greer assured the boy, placing a fatherly hand on his shoulder.

“I hope so,” the Epps kid said quietly, obviously filled with doubt. The struggle was written in his face; loyalty against duty, guilt versus guilt. Paulson turned away. He’d seen this too many times. It was sickening. He couldn’t look.

“You have to understand,” Chris said earnestly, “I don’t actually _know_ that Eric’s... involved in this. It’s just... I just... when the officers asked me if I knew anything, he’s the first person I thought of, and... I can’t think of anyone else who would... Eric is sick, I know that much. He... needs... help.”

“If Eric isn’t in his right mind,” Greer assured him, “then he can’t be held criminally responsible. If that’s the case, he’ll get the help he needs.”

“I’m gonna get some air,” Paulson said, heading for the door without looking back. It was subtle, but Greer could hear the strain in his voice. He let him go. The last thing he needed was his subordinate’s sporadic bursts of conscience getting in the way of closing a case.

“Tell me about Eric,” he said, “What makes you think he could be the Butcher?”

****

Mr. Miller seemed to be taking his new role as an underground resistance fighter to heart. He was holding forth about the relative importance of the Eastern and Western fronts in the European theater of World War II, going totally off message from the state approved textbook, giving the Russians all the credit for saving the world from the Nazis, when Cordelia felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. She looked at it discretely, pretty sure he would turn a blind eye for the sake of the war effort. Buffy was trying to call. “what?” Cordelia texted, holding the phone in her lap.

“Is Willow with you?”

“Yeah”

“We r in AZ, no way 2 get back by 3.” Cordelia didn’t show the phone to Willow. She knew she would only panic.

“AZ? Y?” she texted back. She had a feeling she knew, but it was so unlike either of them to make a promise and then just decide they had something better to do. Maybe they’d both been hit on the head a few too many times lately.

“secret wedding,” Buffy answered, sure enough. Xander was going to go ballistic.

“seriously? Now?” “WTF?!!!!!” Cordelia scolded. “what abt W?”

“can you do it?”

“Me?” That was ballsy. Cordelia wasn’t the one who’d gotten Willow involved in the world of crime and missing persons and police interviews. Why should she have to let an amateur witch practice dangerous magic on her? Even if she did, she wouldn’t even know how to be Sheila Rosenberg. She’d only ever seen her from a distance and heard her talked about second hand.

“Then who?”Buffy asked.

“Xander” It was the only answer. He’s practically grown up at Sheila’s house. He would do anything for Willow. And they needed Willow. She was the best brain in the gang, especially if Giles was going to keep flaking out on them.

“OK. Thanks. Sorry. Lot going on.”

“So I c. If W goes bck 2 jail, X will kill you both.”

“We’ll go quietly.”

“not funny, not cool.” Cordelia hated that Xander was having to stick his neck out for Willow on Buffy’s behalf, and she knew he would hate that it was because Giles hadn’t come through.

“ouch. Seriously, sorry.”Buffy repeated.

“u owe us.”

“no lie”

“something big”

“world saveage?”

“Ha! Nice try! I’ll let u know!”

“OK.”

“So, so big...”

“Done.”

“Damn right.”

Giles looked at Buffy expectantly. “Did you get a hold of anyone?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Buffy said a little worriedly, “Cordelia. She thinks Xander will do it. She’s super pissed at us though.”

“About what?” Joyce asked.

“I volunteered Giles to... do something... something important, for Willow,” Buffy explained, “then, what with the nearly getting killed, I forgot to tell him about it and now we can’t get back in time.”

“Surly, she’ll understand,” Joyce opined with her usual optimism.

“I hope so,” Buffy said doubtfully. She decided not to burden her mother with the sad and horrible fates of Amy Madison and Sheila Rosenberg. She’d have hated to give her any reason to think that Willow was a ‘bad witch’ or a ‘bad influence.’ Although, she suddenly remembered, by the end of the day, her mother wouldn’t be in charge of judging her influences anymore. The thought was exhilarating, frightening and (literally) liberating. She laughed with joy and kissed her pleasantly confused fiancé on the lips. She guessed there was a reason it was called ‘emancipation.’ “This is really happening!” she shouted, which was as clearly as she dared to explain her sudden change of mood. “I’m really getting married! I’m so happy!”

Buffy laid her head back on Giles’ arm again, reaching back to hold his hand, fingers all entwined. He grinned back at her stupidly and murmured that he loved her. Joyce reminded herself of her vow to be cheerful. Whatever Buffy’s future held, it couldn’t be improved by her being miserable on her wedding day. Joyce saw a sign. It said, ‘Yuma, Next 5 Exits.’ The end of the world as she knew it was close at hand.

****

“Of all the bars in all the world...” Willy laughed nervously. The Slayer wasn’t laughing. The room was suddenly empty. “Sit down, kid,” he offered, striving desperately for a friendly, casual tone. “Take a load off.”

“I t’ink I might take a load off your shoulders,” said Kendra harshly. Willy’s hand involuntarily caressed his throat. She was wearing very high boots, he noted, which could easily conceal a very long knife.

“Hey now,” he whined. “There’s no reason to use that kind of language. I’ll cooperate.”

“I do not trust you!” she retorted.

“Smart girl,” he observed. “I like that in a woman, I really do.” Suddenly his head hit the top of the bar moderately hard. His eyes watered. He felt sick but not broken. She was taking it easy on him, he realized. He cautioned himself not to read too much into it. She had mellowed a little as she’d gotten a little time on the job, that was all. Still, there was no turn-on like a beautiful girl who could literally kill you with her bare hands but probably wouldn’t. She let him lift his head and catch his breath. “What do you want to know?” he asked.

“What is Angelus planning?” she demanded. The question caught him off guard. He hadn’t realized that the Slayers (or one of them at least) bought Spike’s line that Angel was still alive. “The ritual,” she persisted, maintaining a threatening posture, “what does it do.” Hook, line and sinker, he realized with a kind of awe. His hat was off to Spike, it really was.

He almost said, ‘what ritual,’ but he could see she was getting impatient enough to be truly dangerous to him. “He don’t tell me that kinda thing,” he answered relatively truthfully, substituting Spike for Angel in his interpretation of the question.

“What do the demons say about it?” she insisted.

“Something about the dark moon, which I guess they mean the new moon, that really is all I know,” he pleaded. It almost was.

Kendra was visibly shocked. “The new moon? Not the full moon?”

“That’s what I hear,” he confirmed, feeling a little more in control knowing that he had been able to give her valuable information after all, and probably not enough for Spike to kill him over.

“T’en why did t’ey kill all t’ose virgins already,” she demanded skeptically.

Willy shrugged, “The blood has to be pure. I guess it don’t have to be fresh. It stays crazy cold down there anyway. They’re in the Church at the Hellmouth, you know that right?” Of course, he knew that she did and so did Spike, so there was nothing being given away there. The pump station was more of a secret if either place was.

Kendra nodded, “Buffy’s... friend... told me t’at much.”

Willy noticed the way she said ‘friend.’ He guessed she didn’t like Buffy and her Watcher being more than friends. Conduct unbecoming or something. He decided to empathize for a few points. “Yeah, ‘friends’” he scoffed. “It’s a rotten shame if you ask me. Nice girl like that. An’ who ever thought _he’d_ be the type, ya know?”

She gave him a quizzical, uneasy look. “What are you talking about?”

“You know, Buffy an’ Giles gettin’ all friendly...” the look on her face was a warning. “Holy smokes!” Willy said with a flinch, “you don’t know do ya.” Willy knew he was in dangerous territory but at the same time he felt he was within reach of doing something useful, particularly from Spike’s point of view. When your livelihood depends on guys like Spike, you have to keep proving yourself useful.

“I know you are a liar,” Kendra pointed out with suppressed heat, “and now I know t’at you t’ink I am a fool. T’at I can be manipulated by these filt’y insinuations.” Kendra was mad, but it was the kind of mad that’s trying hard not to be something else, like disillusioned, for example. If he pushed her just the right amount, he could knock the whole Slayer crew out of harmony, hopefully without getting himself killed in the process.

“Well, who knows,” he backed off, in a tone of placation rather than true uncertainty. “Maybe I’m wrong. You know, you hear all kinds of things, but that info seemed pretty solid, what with that ring he gave her and her being pregnant and everything, I mean she didn’t get that way from Angel, you know, him being dead an’ all.”

“Buffy is pregnant?” said Kendra skeptically. “T’at is not possible.” And it wasn’t. No Watcher would allow... No Slayer would allow... No. It was not possible. Then again... She remembered the look on Buffy’s face, the first day she’d seen her, at the ice rink kissing Angelus. Passion. Rapture. Surrender. Reckless abandon. She had seemed ready to allow literally anything. And her Watcher had seemed oddly unconcerned. If Buffy had really been willing to... lie with a vampire, why not a human being? But still, her own Watcher? That part at least must be a lie. And if that was a lie why not all of it?

Kendra shook herself a little internally. Willy was still making pseudo-apologetic noises about how he was sure he was mistaken even while implying that there were many good reasons to know that he was not. This rodent of a man was obviously trying to drive a wedge between the Slayers, to give the vampires an advantage. He was a traitor to mankind. He had already delivered Buffy into the hands of assassins once. He was literally guilty of attempted murder. That she knew for a fact, as surely as she knew he would never be punished by human law for that crime and probably a lot of others. Meanwhile, he was maintaining a safe haven, a social center, for demons of all kinds. It shouldn’t be tolerated.

Suddenly, Willy felt his head hitting the bar again, a lot harder than the last time. Again, harder still. He cried out. He begged for mercy. The Slayer made a noise of contempt and disgust. She put her hand on his chin and casually thrust him backwards. He hit the shelf behind him hard enough to knock a few bottles of alcohol and other foul smelling potions to the floor, landing in a battered heap among the caustic liquids and broken glass. “Get up,” she ordered him coldly. He scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could. This wasn’t Buffy he was dealing with, and he’d obviously made her think more than she wanted to. He knew he’d be pushing his luck to count on any slack. “Get out,” she commanded when he’d regained his feet.

“What? Why?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

Kendra picked up a cigarette lighter that was lying on the bar. “Get out of the building,” she repeated. “It’s about to get very hot in here.” He looked at her shocked, disbelieving. Kendra felt a little hesitation. Ordinarily, she’d have consulted her Watcher before taking an action this extreme, but there was no Watcher readily available. Anyway, this seemed to be how things were done in Sunnydale. “I hope t’at you have fire insurance,” she said, “but I don’t recommend t’at you try to rebuild. Time to be moving on wit’ your life I t’ink.”

“You can’t do this, Slayer!” he shouted, getting a _lot_ more volume than he had previously. “You can’t burn down this bar! This bar is my life!” Kendra was on the verge of telling him that she could, she would, and he was just lucky she’d given him the chance to get out. The words never made it to her lips. She heard footsteps behind her. She turned just in time to block an attack, hurling aside a skinny female vampire, buying herself a split second to draw a stake and dust the vamp coming up behind the first one. With her back to the bar, Kendra faced a growing semicircle of vampires.

They were pouring in from the hallway near the bathrooms. Within a minute or two, she had killed three of them, but they kept coming. There were two dozen of them. More. Arms and legs flying she was barely keeping them at bay. She leapt up and back, landing on her feet on top of the bar. They were pouring around the sides of the bar now, surrounding her. She pulled a twelve inch blade from a sheath inside her boot, brandishing it in her right hand, holding a stake in her left. When there were no more than a dozen in front of her, she hurtled herself forward over most of their heads, slashing at the few that now stood between her and the door. As one was killed and a couple injured, the rest scrambled out of her way, but others rushed at her from behind.

The solid metal door was locked. It would take more than one blow to force it open. There wasn’t time. Kendra was being pulled from her feet. She struck out randomly, hacking off fingers and hands. She staked one more vampire before the stake was pulled from her hand with enough force to dislocate her shoulder. The blade fell from her right hand as her wrist was bent back and broken. There was such a pile of vampires on top of her now that they were crushing the air from her lungs. Fangs sank into her arms, legs, head and neck. The world was on the verge of going dark when a familiar, authoritative voice shouted “Stop!” Spike? Spike. The vampires stopped drinking from the Slayer’s veins. Kendra was treading water a couple of leagues below the surface of reality, but not too deep to feel confused and uneasy at being ‘saved’ by Spike. What was he saving her _for_?

As the crushing mass for vampires withdrew, Kendra tried to get to her feet, but she wasn’t strong enough. It didn’t seem worth the effort. They must have drained her nearly dry she realized calmly. Her thoughts were fairly clear, but her emotions seemed to be gone. It was odd to realize how strong they had actually been without her knowing it. Nothing seemed to have value. She didn’t _care_ that she was likely about to die. Objectively, this seemed like a bad sign. She also didn’t care that Buffy and Giles probably really were lovers or that that was only one of a variety of things Willow and the others were actively hiding from her. She disapproved, of course, but she didn’t _mind._

At Spike’s direction, two of Kendra’s attackers helped her to her feet. Holding her up between them, they propelled her through the bar, down the small hallway to the stairwell that led to the basement storeroom. From there, they supported her down a long sloping tunnel into the sewers below. She was passing in and out of consciousness now, but she knew that they had passed through more than one cluster of uneasy, hostilely muttering vampires before they arrived in what looked for all the world like the ruins of a church. Soon, Kendra found she was chained by the hand and foot in a way that forced her to either stand or hang upright. There was no slack to sit or lie down. She felt a sharp pain in the crook of her left elbow and looked over to find a severe looking woman of thirty—or probably a vampire much older—expertly starting an IV. “Bring up a couple of those Red Cross bags,” Spike was saying, “and some kind of tranquilizers, Ketamine, Phenobarbital, whatever we have in the vault, and plenty of narcotics. We want her alive, not kicking.”

“Holly Christ in Heaven!” said an aristocratic accent in tones of awe and rapture. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yep,” said Spike. “She cost us five vamps plus bits and pieces, but you got your wish. The purest, most powerful blood in the world. Should be back up to the full gallon well before the new moon. Sweet sixteen, never been kissed and 100% Slayer.”

****

“This, right here today has been the worst, most humiliating experience of my entire life,” Xander declared emphatically as he got into Cordelia’s car.

“It couldn’t have gone that bad,” Cordelia observed as they watched Willow move into the driver’s seat of Sheila’s car and pull away, obviously still a free woman.

“Oh, Willow did fine,” he assured her. “I think they actually believed she had no idea where Amy was. I guess anybody can learn to lie with enough practice. No, I was the embarrassment. Me and my... dress.”

“But you’re not wearing a dress,” Cordelia pointed out.

“I should have,” he clarified. Willow had wanted him to wear Sheila’s clothes. She’d said it would be better than doing the glamour on his clothes as well as himself, easier to control what people would see. She’d been right.

“First, I forget and go into the men’s room,” he explained. “Thank God I passed a mirror before I got to the urinals, but as I go to leave some creep, who looks like he should be in jail, grabs my ass and tries to get me to go into one of the stalls with him. So I deck him, and would you believe that son-of-a-bitch tries to hit me back! As far as he knows I’m a forty-four year-old woman! I mean I’m old enough to be his mother! So, I block him with my forearm, right? And I guess I must have been yelling at the guy, which to everyone else sound like this lady, in the men’s room, screaming for help. So the cops come rushing in there and pull us apart and try to arrest the guy for attempted rape.”

“Oh my God!” Cordelia was horrified and incongruously amused but she managed to show one and not the other.

“I know! So, then I have to try to talk them out of pressing charges. And I’m trying to explain what happened without explaining what happened and I don’t want them to think I was actually trying to do something with this guy, which is what he does want them to think and the more I try to explain it, the more it dawns on me that this guy really did try to rape me and it’s really starting to freak me out. So, I tried to tell them he grabbed my ass and I smacked him and that was all that happened. But apparently, my fly was undone and what they saw was like my skirt was ripped open. And then he says he wants to press charges against me for hitting him. And I swear to God I was not crying, but apparently it looked that way to them. And when he said that, I literally had to get between him and the cops to stop them from killing him! Which just convinced them I really was doin’ it with this guy in the bathroom and we got into it over our favorite positions or something.

“And _then_ I have to go and be the mom in the interview with two of these same cops and Willow and her lawyer, this Graves lady, who just keeps giving me this look like I’ve completely lost my mind and she’s personally offended by it. On the plus side, I think they kind of went easy on Willow on account of feeling sorry for her for having such a skank for a mom, but I may have ruined Sheila’s reputation forever. Not that it’s going to matter if we don’t find a way to wake her up.”

“Wow,” said Cordelia. She couldn’t think what else to say. She was embarrassed for Xander, _partly_ for the fact that these events had happened, but mostly for not knowing any better than to tell anyone, _especially_ his girlfriend, that they had. It was like he had no male pride at all. “So...” she said, mercifully changing the subject, “Mr. Miller knows where we can get our hands on a couple of good used flamethrowers.”

****

As soon as the nightmare interview was over, Willow hurried to Oz’s house to spend a couple of hours with him before curfew. His parents were both beyond rude to her, but they didn’t try to stop her from going upstairs. Oz himself seemed... conflicted about her being there. She tried to tell herself he was just worried about the wolf moon, but she knew there was more to it than that. She just didn’t know what. She tried telling him about her interview.

“More magic?” he said doubtfully, with a definite hint of disapproval, “I thought you weren’t doing that anymore.”

“Well... I’m not... much. But I had to have my mom there. If anyone finds out she’s... like she is... I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.”

“You don’t know what’s going to happen to you if you keep doing magic either,” he pointed out broodingly.

“Oh, come on,” she cajoled, trying to put an arm around his shoulder, “it was just a glamour. It’s not like—” He shifted away from her, shrugging her hand off even though it obviously hurt him to move that much. “What?” Willow demanded.

Oz didn’t speak for a minute. He seemed both frustrated and troubled. “You’re using all this power,” he said tightly, “and you don’t really know where it comes from. I mean you know the names of a few gods or whatever, but gods of what? Gods from where? And if they give you all this power, what are they going to want for it?”

It was Willow’s turn to brood quietly for a moment. “Well...” she said finally, “gods want reverence, I guess. The incantations and the... potions or whatever. I guess that’s what they like.”

“So you think these _beings_ are granting you supernatural abilities because you ask nice?” he challenged skeptically.

“Yeah?” Willow squeaked, suddenly very doubtful herself. The way Oz said it, it sounded ridiculous.

“I don’t buy it,” he said flatly. They were both quiet for a while. “I’m going to ask you something,” Oz said finally, seriously, “And I want you to tell me the truth. Can you do that?”

“Of course,” Willow assured him, but she really didn’t know if she could until he asked, and she was afraid it showed.

“Is anyone else in your family a witch?” Oz asked.

Willow laughed with relief. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to ask, but it wasn’t that. “Of course not,” she assured him honestly.

“Are you sure,” he persisted. “What about your grandmother?”

“Nanna Rosenberg? She doesn’t even believe in luck, let alone magic.”

“What about your mom’s mom?” Oz asked much too seriously.

Willow’s brow furrowed. He knew something, or thought he did. Maybe he just had the idea that magical ability might be genetic. “I guess I don’t really know,” she admitted. “Mom never talked about her. Dad said she was killed in a fire when Mom was a little girl.”

“A fire,” Oz said pensively. Whatever thoughts he was having, he kept to himself. He took Willow’s hands and kissed her on the forehead. “Look just... be careful,” he said at last. “Not just with the magic but... who you tell about it. I just... don’t want to see you get hurt. It’s a dangerous world.”

 


	5. For Better or For Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what happened when they got to Arizona, land of the lax marriage laws. And a few things that happened in Sunnydale at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Conclusion of Part I: Motherless Child

“Oh my God,” Buffy whined, “this is like cruel and unusual punishment. I mean, could this line _be_ any longer? I feel like we’ve been waiting for an hour.”

“We have been,” Joyce pointed out.

“And seven minutes,” Giles confirmed. They stood in a long line of hopeful couples and sundry relatives filling the long, narrow hallway between the marriage license bureau and other court offices. It was a good thing they’d come here first. It was an hour later here than in Sunnydale.

“It’d go faster if half of California didn’t bring their damn kids out here,” someone near the front of the line grumbled, bravely making sure to be heard but not seen.

“Screw you,” said a very pregnant and not at all blushing bride, who had to be even younger than Buffy. Her groom looked to be all of twenty, but they had all four parents in tow, so he might not have been. He was certainly blushing. Her mother scolded her quietly. It didn’t seem to make an impression.

“I told you we should have gone to Las Vegas,” Buffy teased. “I bet they have way better customer service.”

“And friendlier natives,” Giles agreed pointedly in the general direction of the unseen commentator. He was in no mood to suffer insults gladly. He desperately wanted to lie down next to his young bride and sleep for about twelve hours.

“We’re up dear,” said Mrs. Hidden Voice, nervously, ushering him through the door before anything more could be said.

“Finally!” he said indignantly. “It’s about damn time.”

“Indeed,” said Giles.

“No lie!” the little pregnant girl agreed. Her mother yanked her aside and whispered harsh words in her ear. Her fiancé scowled and put his arm around her. Giles sighed. It was not a good feeling to know that even _those_ people thought he was some kind of pervert. Buffy patted his hand and laid her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair, ignoring a disproving look from the slightly older and much less pregnant bride behind them.

For a couple of minutes they were the subject of increased staring and whispering. Then everyone turned to get a look at Mr. and Mrs. Indignant Yuma Natives as they left the office with their license. He looked as sour as he sounded. “Come on,” he barked impatiently, pulling her along so that she had to trot in her high heels to stay on her feet. She looked embarrassed. She should have worn longer sleeves to hide the dozens of finger shaped bruises on her arms.

“Alright,” Joyce whispered, “I admit it. You could do a lot worse.” It suddenly occurred to Giles that some of the looks he’d been getting were on suspicion of beating his long sleeved bride and her badly bruised mother with a baseball bat.

At last, at 4:25, local time they walked through the doorway and up to the counter. “We’re here to apply for a marriage license,” Giles explained needlessly. “We also need a parental consent form.” The woman behind the counter pursed her lips but said nothing, handing over the paperwork on a clipboard with a pen attached. She nodded in the direction of a couple of benches, which were mostly taken up already by the family of six going on seven, who were indeed filling out two parental consent forms. Giles stood while Buffy and her mother sat.

“Date of birth?” Buffy asked him at length, holding the clipboard.

“February 20, 1951,” he recited tiredly, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

“Oh my God, really?” Buffy asked. The little pregnant girl giggled, while her family stared disapprovingly at him again.

“I told you my age,” he said defensively. He was really much too tired to take any ribbing.

“Not that,” Buffy clarified, “I mean... God that just has to have been the worst birthday in the history of mankind.”

“It had its moments,” Giles assured Buffy, in a way that left Joyce horribly doubtless as to what he meant, “but overall, yes. It was the worst day of my life, as strange as it feels now to say that. As for birthdays, I don’t celebrate them anymore, and I think you well know why. Look, let’s just get on with this, shall we.” He added crossly.

Joyce was curious, but she said nothing. She doubted it was anything that would bear discussing in public. They were already spectacle enough. Instead, she tried to focus on completing the paperwork necessary to surrender her only child to this middle aged man who had clearly violated her within hours of finding his last girlfriend’s dead body. For a nickel she’d have called the whole thing off if it cost a dime to do it. But the reasons for going ahead outweighed those for backing out by more than that and she knew it.

Buffy glumly returned her attention to her clipboard. Instead of asking Giles any more questions, she filled out her parts and then handed it to him. She felt less like his wife than ever and certainly nothing like a bride. Getting married should be exciting and romantic, not tedious and nerve racking. A bride and groom should be smiling at each other, not avoiding eye contact. Of course, it had been stupid and insensitive of her to mention Jenny’s murder. Logically, it had to put him in a worse mood. Giles loved Jenny, she reminded herself. He missed her. He’d probably rather be here with her than with Buffy. Then his life would be sailing calmly along, not spiraling out of control. Buffy had gotten the chance to say goodbye to Angel, the Angle she’d known and loved anyway. Giles had never had that chance with Jenny. She was just gone, ripped away from him. And he was left to deal with the consequences, including getting tangled up with Buffy.

Buffy felt like crying, but she stopped herself. Her stomach was in knots. She suddenly felt horribly alone. She tried to ignore the feeling. The family ahead of them had gone, making room for two more couples to join them. Giles finished with the clipboard, silently handing it to Joyce, who’d been filling out her form on a magazine in her lap. At last they were able to present all their documents to the clerk and get their hands on the all important piece of paper. It was a quarter to five. No chance of making curfew now, time zones notwithstanding. Still, they needed to get back to check on the Hellmouth. Suddenly, Buffy didn’t have a good feeling about the calm holding another night. “Never mind about the rings,” she said, “we can’t wear them yet anyway. Let’s just get married here and get it over with.”

****

Willow was home well before six. She hated to leave Oz, but it was obvious he felt less than comfortable having her there. “This is all your fault,” she said glumly, adding more food pellets to the dispenser in Amy’s cage.

“Eeekqueekqueek!” said Amy.

Willow looked around for Kendra but didn’t find her. She must have gone out. Maybe Giles had gotten a hold of her and sent her on patrol. Since Buffy’s three nervous, cryptic messages about her sudden trip to Arizona were still ‘new messages,’ she kind of doubted it. Maybe the new Slayer was starting to show some initiative. Then again, the newlyweds might be back in town already. Maybe Giles had come over to give Kendra her orders in person.

Willow sighed. It was weird to think her best friend could already be married, especially without her being there to see it. She felt like everything happened without her, or at least everything good. She hoped they’d at least gotten some pictures. She started to call Buffy, but she didn’t want to make her phone ring in the middle of the ceremony. Instead, she went upstairs to the spare room to check on her mother, though she had no clue what she thought she was checking for. Sheila was still there, breathing in and out, magically consuming no energy, requiring no food to do so. How much power _did_ it take to maintain a situation like that? Was she, as Oz seemed to think, racking up an enormous bill for that power, which was going to come due when she least expected it?

In a way, she kind of resented the negative attitude he was taking about her witchcraft. He was a werewolf for heaven’s sake. She had never judged him or made him feel weird or dangerous for that, even though it was. Why should he care if she did magic? At the same time, she knew he was only acting out of genuine concern for her wellbeing. And the truth was she had plenty of misgivings herself about the magic she had used and was using. She wanted to stop, but ‘now’ just never seemed to be the right time. There was always something more that needed to be done first. She needed magic to try to undo, or at least deal with, the things she had already done. And it really had been a help to Buffy. And with the battle that was obviously ahead of them, they would need all the help they could get, flamethrowers notwithstanding.

For better or for worse, it seemed like if any magic was going to get done, Willow would be the one to do it. Apparently, she had a talent for it. It came easier to her than to most people. _More_ happened when Willow recited an incantation than when Buffy or Cordelia tried to do it. She had noticed that back when they were doing the disinvitation spells against Angel. And then, Amy had said as much.

And that was something else about Oz’s worrying that worried Willow. He seemed convinced that her grandmother, or someone in her family tree, had to be a witch, but he shut down completely when she tried to figure out why he thought so. Whatever information he had, or thought he had, his parents must have also, Willow realized. Parents were parents, of course, but she still thought it would take more than sex, even painful, ill-advised sex to explain their sudden, intense hatred of her. So it was probably something they had told him. She couldn’t picture it happening the other way round. But what would Oz’s parents know about what happened in her family? It had to be some past event, some matter of public knowledge. She remembered Oz’s reaction to the news of her grandmother’s death. In retrospect, it seemed like he might have been holding back, choosing not to say something he thought he knew about it.

A fire was news, the kind that would be in the newspaper. Thankfully, the ladies at the Del Bacco County Public Library were a lot more open to the wonders of the late twentieth century than Giles was. They had been in the process of putting all the back issues of the _Sun-Times_ (and the _Sun_ and the _Times_ ) online for years. They had finally gotten all the way back to 1899, a complete set. Sheila was forty-four. If the fire had happened when she was a ‘little girl’, as opposed to a baby or a teenager, that had to be between 1956 and 1966. That was still a lot of newspapers to scroll through. In Sunnydale, it was probably a lot of fires. She needed to narrow the time frame down. Her first thought would have been to go through her mother’s things, to find a letter or paper that made some reference to her grandmother’s death. But Sheila never kept anything from the past. She didn’t even like to keep photographs. She always threw everything away, even Willow’s school papers and artwork, other than a handful Ira had managed to lock in his study. If there was anything to be found, Willow realized, that’s where it would be. Not something she had kept, but something he had kept of hers. Because he loved her. Because whatever else Sheila was, she was his, for better or for worse.

****

As soon as they left the courthouse, Buffy started to feel a little better. When they’d found out how long the wait was to be married there and which two couples in particular they’d be waiting with, not to mention the possibility that they might only be waiting to be told ‘come back tomorrow’; it had been an easy choice to ask directions to the nearest chapel instead. Buffy was sitting up front with her mother, navigating from the little photo copied map. “Oh! There it is!” she called out, pointing to the sign for ‘Reverend Loving’s Las Vegas Style Wedding Chapel.’ “Right next to that—neahyeah!—office supply warehouse.”

“If you ever have a dream about a horse race, My Dear,” Giles said almost seriously, “be sure and tell me straight away.”

“There’s a Jeweler next door,” Joyce pointed out, “on the other side.” She didn’t bother to ask why Buffy was freaked out by an office supply store. It always seemed like asking her daughter about anything just led to finding out more than she wanted to know. “You can get a couple of rings after all.”

“Let’s get checked in at the chapel first,” Giles suggested, “see how long the wait is.”

“Agreed,” said Buffy.

As advertised, Reverend Loving’s was indeed a Las Vegas style wedding chapel. Framed photos of ceremonies lined the walls in the front room, showing an unholy assortment of props and costumes. “Will this be a traditional or a theme wedding?” the listless young girl behind the front desk asked. She was dressed in black like a funeral director. Her giant spangly name tag said ‘Annabelle.’ Nothing else about Annabelle sparkled.

“Traditional,” the three travelers answered in unison.

“Good Lord!” Giles exclaimed, “I think we all agreed on something.”

“Oh great,” Buffy joked with a perfect imitation of a resigned sigh. “Here comes another apocalypse(!)” Annabelle laughed nervously, but Joyce smiled with warmth and amusement. It seemed like the tension between them was finally broken.

“Will you be giving the bride away?”Annabelle asked Joyce, “or will her father be joining us.”

“Her father is going to kill us all,” Joyce informed her with a sort of bleakly cheerful resignation. She was looking nervously at Joyce’s battered face. “I’m giving my daughter away,” Joyce clarified. Shaking her head she added, “I actually am.”

Buffy squeezed her hand, “but you’re gaining a mathematically impossible son,” she said mock solemnly.

“Is it too late to trade for the Harris kid?” Joyce asked wryly.

“You know,” said Buffy wonderingly, “I think it really, really is. From his point of view even. I think he really truly loves Cordelia.”

“Well let’s hope so,” said Giles crisply forcing a smile that he was pleased to note didn’t _seem_ too forced. He was not enjoying the gallows humor as much as the two women seemed to be, but he wasn’t going to do anything to derail their good mood if he could help it.

“Are they the witnesses?” the Annabelle asked tiredly, trying to follow the conversation.

“Just a little... inside humor,” Giles explained. “You can... provide witnesses, I suppose?”

“Of course,” she assured him. “That’s what I do most of the time actually, but we’re a little short handed right now. Do you want to have the ceremony tonight, by the way? Because I forgot to tell you that’s fifty dollars extra.”

“Not a problem,” Giles assured her. “As soon as possible.”

Annabelle shrugged as if to say it was his mistake to make. She looked at her appointment book. “We have a seven-thirty open,” she offered.

“Perfect,” he assured her.

“Unless there is any way it could possibly be sooner,” Buffy chimed in.

“That’s less than two and a half hours from now,” the clerk pointed out. “My dad’s the only preacher here. I mean, it’s not actually Las Vegas.”

“Okay,” Buffy said, “put us down for the seven-thirty, but we can totally go sooner if somebody gets done early or something.”

“Okay,” said the girl uncomfortably, “If you’ll just have a seat through that door over there, Mom—I mean, your wedding planner—will be with you in a few minutes.”

“Meanwhile,” said Giles, “I’ll go and get the rings.”

“If there’s anything you really, really don’t want,” Buffy said, staying behind a minute after Joyce left the room, “tell me now or you’re not allowed to gripe about it for the next fifty years.”

“Flower petals,” he said with an involuntary shudder.

“Please,” Buffy said with gentle indignation, “give me a _little_ credit.”

“Triple A plus,” he assured her with a small kiss on the lips. She grabbed both of his hands and pulled him back, kissing him a little longer. The third kiss was longer still, and just a little deeper. Annabelle cleared her throat. Not _too_ pointedly. It _could_ have been a coincidence. If she had been an assertive enough person to do anything too pointedly. Giles started to back off, a little embarrassed, then, suddenly, he literally swept Buffy off of her feet, catching her up in his arms and kissing her more deeply and passionately than she’d ever been kissed with her clothes on. A minute or so later, he set her back on her feet, blushing and grinning. He was grinning too, but he wasn’t blushing. “It’s alright,” he reminded the deeply embarrassed and slightly disgruntled girl behind the counter. “We have a license.”

“I’ll be back in half an hour,” he assured Buffy.

“I promise not to start without you,” she said sarcastically, but she couldn’t stop grinning. He turned to leave and she floated off to join her mother. Joyce refrained from commenting on her daughter’s sudden flush and renewed giddiness. She was in a different, more accepting place with regard to Buffy’s marriage than she had been this morning, she realized. And she was relieved to see that Buffy _was_ happy going into planning for the ‘happy occasion,’ even if she still didn’t like to think of how she had gotten that way.

While they were waiting for the wedding planner, Buffy texted Cordelia for an update from the Hellmouth. Joyce worried she was going to ruin her good mood already, but Buffy seemed relieved of her burdens and free to be even more giddy when she received the reply: “No arrests or fatalities. No sign of vampires on the move. Tell Giles we need $1200 cash by tomorrow night to buy flamethrowers.”

Joyce raised an eyebrow at that. “Honestly,” Buffy assured her, “I have no idea.” She flipped her phone closed and stuck it in her purse as a taller, paler, more shapely version of Annabelle swept into the room, laying a hat, scarf and sunglasses on the table by the door.

“Myra Loving,” said the young woman offering her hand. “I had to run to the florist,” she added, a little nervously. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” Buffy hesitated, suddenly tense, and that made Joyce nervous. When she looked for something strange about the wedding planner, it wasn’t hard to find. She was oddly formally dressed in a floor length skirt, boots, high collar and long white gloves that disappeared under her sleeves. She seemed much too young to be the mother of an eighteen or twenty year-old girl.

Hat. Scarf. Sunglasses.

Joyce made a noise between a gasp and a yelp. She had to fight the urge to try to get between Buffy and the vampire. Mrs. Loving’s eyes were as round as saucers. She was trembling, and if possible, even paler. She was terrified of Buffy.

If she was Annabelle’s mother, Buffy realized, then she had been a vampire for at least ten or fifteen years, so she probably wasn’t here to slaughter her family. Unless she had been tipped off by someone at the courthouse—which didn’t seem likely—she wasn’t here to kill Buffy either. She was probably here to plan weddings. A vampire with a straight up, legitimate job, and a family? That was a new one on Buffy. She didn’t exactly know how to react. Here was this... business person, apparently minding her own business, offering a service that Buffy needed. Under the circumstanced, she had the odd feeling that it would be _impolite_ to slay her, not to mention the crimp it would put in their schedule.

Buffy shook Myra’s hand. “I’m thinking we want to go kind of minimalist with this,” she said, “quick, straightforward, traditional.” With a gesture, she nonverbally gave Myra permission to take a seat in her own office. She did so, visibly relieved and grateful.  Joyce had to sit too. She felt lightheaded. There was a sense of unreality. They talked about flowers (not too many, definitely no roses, no strewing of petals), music (no songs about angels, first loves or second chances), photography (not if it meant waiting a few more minutes for the substitute photographer to get out of night school) and everything else that might possibly go into a fifteen minute, same-day-service wedding with no guests and no reception. Buffy asked for and got Joyce’s opinion on a few things. _Myra_ asked her for her input once or twice. She found herself being polite, even friendly. But given what she had been through in the past twenty-four hours, it was taxing to ignore the fact that she was talking with an undead monster.

“Now the vows themselves...” Myra said, “We use the Modified Traditional the most.”

“Modified how?” asked Buffy skeptically.

“Well unlike the Classic Traditional, the vows are the same for the man and the woman, ‘love, honor and cherish’ as opposed to ‘love, honor and obey.’

“ _Obey_?” said Buffy incredulously. “ _That’s_ traditional? Western civilization is truly, deeply sick.”

“I’ve often thought so,” Joyce agreed, smiling ironically.

“You should have seen it thirty years ago,” said Myra. Joyce was unnerved to find herself feeling a sense of commonality with the creature.

“The truth is,” Buffy said, “don’t ever tell him I said this, but I totally would. If they would just let him stay and be my Wh—Whatever,” Buffy finished, suddenly registering Myra’s deep discomfort at her near acknowledgment of what she really was.

Joyce shook her head wonderingly. She actually seemed to mean it. Not that she thought that her daughter was in any real danger of consistently obeying anyone, but that the possibility would even occur to her was an indication of just how dependent on this man she was, and how devoted to him. “You never obeyed me,” she said, trying to laugh it off.

“I did too,” Buffy said, actually looking a little hurt, “almost always. If I could. You know, unless it was an emergency or something.”

“What’s an emergency?” Giles asked, returning, true to his word, in just a few short minutes with two gold bands.

“We were just talking about the vows,” Buffy said. “Don’t worry. We worked it out. You just have to say ‘I do’ and look pretty.”

“I’ll do my very best,” he said smiling, handing her the rings to inspect. “But you may have to look pretty enough for the both of us. I got yours the same size as the diamond,” he added, “since it seems to fit alright.” If he noticed what Myra was, he didn’t give any indication, at least, not at first. Nonetheless, Joyce felt oddly reassured by his presence though she knew that Buffy was perfectly capable of dealing with one vampire.

Myra suggested they all change into some more appropriate clothing, the loan of which was included in the price of their wedding package. “My sister can help you, find something,” she told Giles, meaning her daughter of course. “We can’t have you back here while we’re trying on dresses.”

“Yes, well, we should all certainly observe the conventions of civilized society,” he agreed, keeping his tone light though she could not have missed his meaning. “I’m quite sure Buffy can handle whatever comes up without my help.”

“Yeah,” Buffy assured him, “we’ve got it handled. We said seven-thirty,” she added pointedly, “and we are _going_ to get married at seven-thirty, if not sooner,” answering the question he hadn’t ask which was, obviously, ‘Why in the bloody hell is there a goddamned vampire planning our wedding?’

“I’ll just show you and your mom where the dresses are,” Myra offered, getting nervous again, “and then I’ll go talk to my husband and see if we can speed things up a little.”

****

“You came,” Michael said. The wonder, the hope, the relief in his voice were almost more than Allen could bear. Standing on the roof of City Hall, watching the perfect sailor’s sunset where they had watched so many before, he really thought he was getting his happy ending. He really though it could be that simple.

“It’s not.... I don’t want you to think...” Allen tried to find the words to say what he meant, but there was no space between weaker than he intended and harsher than he felt. “I’m not going with you,” he said finally. “Not for tonight, not for the rest of our lives; not now, not ever.”

“Of course not,” Michael said bitterly. “You’re staying with _him_.”

“Not _with_ him,” Allen said, frustrated with the black-and-white way Michael Paulson chose to see things in spite of the deep gray way he lived his life. “God... if he heard you imply... If he ever knew....”

“Everyone knows!” Michael retorted angrily. “People who talk to you once on the phone know!”

“That’s not who I am anymore,” Allen insisted quietly.

“Well glory hallelujah!” Michael sniped. “You finally found a cure(!)”

“I’m... in recovery,” Allen mumbled.

“Bullshit!” Michael challenged harshly. “I got called out to break up the fight Cater had with his wife about your little ‘encounter session’ after Group last month.”

“Relapse is a part of recovery,” Allen recited stubbornly.

“So why can’t you relapse with me?” Michael demanded, more anguish than anger in his voice now.

“Because...” Allen tried to explain, “You’re my friend. I want you to get better, to have a healthy, normal... clean life.”

“You mean the kind of pure, clean living we do here in Sunnydale?” Michael challenged. “The kind where we have to drink ourselves to sleep after a hard day of framing innocent kids to help demons get away with murder? Take the beam out of your own eye, man. Don’t talk to me like I’m the only damned sinner here. And, God, I do mean damned! This town... hollows people out inside! We’ve _got_ to get out! Please, please, come with me. Don’t even pack; we’ll leave right now! We don’t have to go to San Francisco and march in a parade. We can move to Salt Lake City and marry twins and have two dozen screaming kids apiece and hate ourselves for the rest of our lives; just don’t let him turn you into what he is!”

Allen turned away, sharply, like he’d been slapped. He felt like it. “Just go, Michael,” he whispered bitterly. “Go live your life. Let me live mine.”

“I love you!” Michael said simply, desperately, reaching for his hand. Allen jerked it away.

“I’ve made my decision,” Allen said firmly, and he had.

“He doesn’t care about you,” Michael said quietly, no hope in his voice now.

“It doesn’t matter,” Allen said. The truth was a poor parting gift, but he had nothing else he could give his old friend. “ _I_ care about _him_.”

****

Mrs. Loving never came back from speaking with her husband. Poor Annabelle was given the task of explaining to Buffy that her ‘sister’ had had to go home sick. The wedding would go ahead at seven-thirty as scheduled, less than an hour to wait. “What do they think I’m going to do?” Buffy groused when the poor girl had hurried back to the front desk, “toss her the bouquet and then cut her head off?”

“You wouldn’t?”Joyce asked, remembering the pitiless, flippant way Buffy had taunted and killed the vampire called Lionel, dispatching him as if he were some _thing_ even while speaking to him as if he were some _one_.

“Of course not!” Buffy said, offended, fussing uncomfortably with the dramatically high collar of her the white satin gown she’d picked out to wear. But she had to admit she wasn’t exactly sure why not. Myra just didn’t seem that much like a vampire. For all Buffy knew, she could be out killing and feeding at that very moment, but it almost didn’t matter. There were people, real people, who loved her. She was somebody’s mom, somebody’s wife. For a second, Buffy wondered if Reverend Loving knew he was ‘married’ to a monster in the shell of his former spouse. She knew, viscerally, from personal experience, that he must. In an intimate situation, the differences were not that subtle.

“My hair should be up,” she grumbled, trying to change the subject of her thoughts. “It looks stupid hanging down over this thing.” The gown’s collar swept up nearly to her ears on the back and sides with one long, narrow triangle of skin in front exposing more than a hint of cleavage. It looked science-fictiony, but it was the only way to hide her bite marks from the night before without being downright prudish. The form-fitting quality of the rest of it, together with the silvery sheen of the fabric and the long, triangularly tapering sleeves, only added to the feeling that this was going to be a sort of a Trekkie themed wedding after all.

“I’ll put it up for you,” Joyce offered. She was no beautician, but she’d done Buffy’s hair plenty of times. If she could just find some bobby pins and a good nylon brush, it would pile up pretty easily.

“You’d think they’d have a hairdresser or something,” Buffy mused, trying hard not to lapse into a grumpy mood again.

“Maybe Myra ate her,” Joyce joked, then immediately wished she hadn’t. It was actually a possibility, they both realized. Annabelle had said they were shorthanded. Had she looked more than usually gloomy when she’d said it?

“Let’s... not worry about that right now,” Buffy suggested with deliberate cheerfulness. “Let’s stick to the important things in life. Like my hair.”

****

Rupert Giles was nervous but excited. He was happy. He was _giddy_. His heart was pounding. His hands were sweating. He didn’t _mind_ that his hands were sweating. It was nearly seven o’clock. The sand in the glass kept tumbling towards seven-thirty, towards eternity. “Would you like to sit down?” Annabelle asked for at least the tenth time.

“I don’t think I could,” he told her. He’d slept two out of the last thirty-six hours, nonconsecutively. It didn’t matter. He was past the point of being tired now, to that extra little space of energy where you feel like you could climb a mountain before you collapse.

“It’ll be over in a few minutes,” she tried to reassure him, totally misinterpreting the quality of his nervous energy.

“No!” he said enthusiastically, “It won’t be. It’s only just beginning! That’s the beauty of it! They could boil me in oil! Bloody hell, they might! It doesn’t matter. She’s mine!”

“For better or for worse,” Annabelle agreed heavily.

Giles stopped pacing and regarded the young woman critically. “You don’t think much of marriage, do you?” he observed.

“What makes you say that?” the girl laughed nervously.

“My brilliant powers of observation and reasoning,” Giles said dryly.

“Would you?” Annabelle said, dropping several pretenses at once.

Giles guessed he wouldn’t pretend either. “Do you remember her?” he asked quietly, “before?”

Annabelle shrugged. “A little. She was... warmer... in more ways than one, you know. She’s never... done anything...” the girl mumbled, looking down at her hands. “But it’s hard on my father. She... feeds off of him.”

“Is he... afraid of her?” Giles asked.

“Sometimes, I guess, but that’s not why he stays with her. He feels... obligated.”

“Because of his wedding vows,” Giles realized.

“For better or for worse,” Annabelle confirmed.

“But only until death,” Giles pointed out soberly.

Annabelle was quiet for a long moment. “She’s _not_ my mother, is she?” she asked at last.

“No,” he told her flatly. “Your mother died long ago.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she said.

“Get out,” he advised.

“And go where?” she asked dejectedly.

Giles sighed. “You’re what, eighteen years old?”

“Nineteen,” Annabelle told him.

“Believe me,” he assured her, “there is a whole world outside of Yuma, Arizona. Go. Live your life.”

“What about my dad?” she wanted to know.

“From what you’ve told me,” Giles advised, “he’s allowed her to make him a permanent victim. You don’t have to let him do the same thing to you.”

“It’s... not that easy,” she objected.

“It never is,” he admitted. “Family is a Gordian knot of love and... obligation.”

“So why are you so psyched about getting married then?” she asked seriously.

Giles smiled, “Because worse with her is better than better without her.” he explained serenely.

Annabelle smiled, “When I saw the three of you come in,” she said, “when I saw which one of them you were with, I really expected you to be an asshole.”

Giles laughed. “Oh, I am,” he assured her. “She could definitely do better.”

Annabelle shrugged. “She could do worse.”

****

Harmony stood nervously in the shadows near the doorway of the main pump room, watching Spike draw the names for the lottery. He was so cool, so hard, like he was made of ice. At the same time, there was something... vulnerable about him, something that made you want to rock him in your arms and eat him alive. He made her heart feel like it wanted to beat and beat fast, and not _just_ because she was afraid of him, although she was. Technically, she had not been told she could leave the mausoleum, but it was only logical that _someone_ ought to go to the drawing. No one at the crypt objected to it being Harmony. No one wanted her there. Spike wanted her, even if he wouldn’t admit it. She might not know much, but she knew when a guy wanted her and how bad.

“Hey baby,” said a smarmy voice behind her, followed immediately by a hand on her ass. Two sets of instincts worked in perfect... well, harmony. She had him on the ground with her knee in his back and his arm twisted behind him before she even thought to wonder who it was. “What the hell, bitch!?!” Warren demanded shrilly. He was angry, terrified and genuinely offended.

Harmony rolled her eyes. Warren Miers: Senior, science geek, terminal looser. “I told you before,” she said, “not _even_ if you were the last guy on Earth.” There was a perceptible shift in the attention of the crowd from the drawing to the disturbance. She let him up, mainly to cut down on the whispering and pointing.

It was too late. Spike was already looking exasperatedly in their direction. “What _now_?” he demanded.

“This bitch nearly broke my arm!” Warren whined.

“Cause you can’t keep it to yourself, you pervert!” Harmony shot back.

Spike made a noise between a sigh and a growl. “What am I, running a sodding summer camp here?” he fumed. “It’s not enough to have another bloody Slayer attack, I have to deal with more of this Jr. High School can’t-keep-your-pants-on crap? No more. The next idiot who tries to go somewhere he hasn’t been invited gets my fist up his ass, and I promise to make sure you don’t enjoy it. Same goes for anybody thinks they want to stake anyone without my say so,” he added, thinking of the incident from the night before. “Let’s show some discipline, people. There’s a war on for fuck’s sake. And you,” he added pointedly to Harmony, “who the hell told you you could leave your post?”

Harmony smiled nervously. “They sent me to come watch the drawing, in case anybody from our crypt gets called.”

“Oh they did, did they?” Spike demanded.

“Yeah?” said Harmony nervously.

“Well _they_ don’t give the orders around here. I do,” said Spike brusquely. “Get back to your post, and tell them every single one of you is out of tonight’s drawing. If any of you wins tomorrow night, someone _I_ authorize will let you know.”

Chastened, Harmony slunk away. Humiliated and resentful, Warren did the same. This underground vampire army was bullshit, he decided. What was the point of being an evil, immortal demon if you still had to mind your elders, do your chores and say mother-may-I to the local cool girls to try to get your dick sucked? And what was with all this virgin sacrifice shit? Superstition. Social control. Just a waste of perfectly good virgins.

Science, not magic, was the key to a better life, Warren thought, even if he did happen to be a vampire. He was sure a solution to the whole sunlight issue could be found by the proper application of technology. As far as the invitation stuff, he suspected it was just a matter of overcoming psychological resistance, of not buying in to it. Even with those limitations he was sure an intelligent vampire could quickly rise to the good life. After all, how hard could it be when violence was no obstacle and therefore, money was no object?

As for the Slayers, how hard could it be just to stay away from them? Buffy seemed to spend all her time in Sunnydale, and the other one was chained up in Spike’s church house right now eating up all the good drugs, giving the junkies among them something to bitch about. It crossed his mind that he ought to help himself to a little parting gift just to let Spike know what he thought of his hospitality, but surly he’d left her with a guard or two. Besides, Warren had seen King Kong a few too many times to want to get that close to a beast in chains.

Dark as it was in the depths of the Earth, Warren’s new vampire instincts told him the sun had just set. Now was the time to leave. Except for a handful of guards, everyone was watching the drawing. The mausoleum was not his way out, obviously, since he just made an enemy there. That left the main sewer junction, which had five guards, or the basement door to Willy’s which had two, not counting the humans upstairs, which he wasn’t. As usual, Plan A was to use his brains. Only an idiot would try violence first when he was outnumbered by members of his own kind. “Congratulations, Sparky,” he said to the tall one. “Spike sent me to tell you, you won the drawing. You’re going out tomorrow night.”

“Groovy!” said the tall dude with real enthusiasm.

“Do not forget what you have promised,” said the other.

“Yeah, man, you can come,” he agreed. “A deal’s a deal.”

“Yeah, well,” Warren said, “They’re drawing the second name now, then a bunch of us are going upstairs for a pint to celebrate. Spike says anyone not on guard duty can take an hour.”

“Will we not be permitted to go?” the shorter one asked.

“Yeah,” Warren assured him. “He’s sending someone to relieve you in about five minutes. I just have to go up and tell Willy to clear us a few tables and bring out some of the good stuff.” That was it. They let him go. He figured he had about ten minutes before they were sure enough they’d been had to try to do something about it. It should be enough. “Hey, Willy,” he said to the barkeeper, recognizing him from description, though he’d never been upstairs. “Spike told me to get that old truck serviced for tomorrow. Toss me the keys, bro.”

Willy stopped in the act of wiping a glass and looked at Warren critically. He was one of the missing high school kids from Sunday’s paper. People thought Willy was an idiot, but he wasn’t. To his knowledge, neither was Spike. There was no way this kid had risen to such a position of trust so quickly. He laid his hand on a silent alarm button he’d had installed under the bar two hours ago. The distress call it sent didn’t go to the police.“It’s already done,” he said. “I had one of my guys take it this afternoon; oil change, new tires, the works.”

“Well that’s... efficient,” said Warren, obviously trying to think of his next move.

“Hey, service is my middle name,” Willy said, “especially for a good customer like your boss. Grab a pint, kid” he offered when Warren still looked unsure what to do. “Take a load off.”

There was a distant sound of voices and footsteps hurrying up the stairs from the basement. Warren turned and ran for the front door, shoving startled demons out of his way. He had no definite idea what Spike would do if he caught him, but he knew he wasn’t interested in finding out. It was still more twilight than dark, but the light didn’t bother him much. Warren rushed out into the gathering night.

****

Reverend Loving looked about how you would expect him to look after meeting his wife. He was thin, pale, fragile, tired looking. Oddly, he seemed quite cheerful. “I just love weddings, don’t you?” he said to Giles as they stood at the front of the chapel waiting for Annabelle to start the music that would play Buffy and Joyce up the aisle.

“I do, actually,” Giles replied, “though this certainly strikes me as a strange one.” The pews were literally empty. Loving had assured them that Joyce could sign both as a grantor of consent and a witness to the ceremony.

The preacher shrugged, “I’ve done stranger,” he said. “Heck, I did one at my old church stranger than this. Proxy marriage. Couple of service members, never cold get leave at the same time. They don’t do that here though.”

“You were a pastor of a church?” Giles asked.

“Sixteen years,” said the old man nostalgically. “Been here every bit as long now. Don’t hardly seem like it. I guess I’ll always think of this as temporary. Something to pay the bills. Still, I do love weddings. Everyone has such hope. They still can be everything they could be. I like seeing that every day.”

“You know, don’t you, what she is?” Giles couldn’t help asking, “what she really is?”

Loving’s smile narrowed and twisted a little, “mine or yours?” he asked wryly, but the comment was followed by a sigh of resignation. “I buried my wife Myra in December of 1981,” he explained grimly. “It was so cold that morning, it felt like the Sun was switched off. They told me not to preach the funeral myself, but I did. That woman was the other half of me, and I picked up that cold damn shovel and I turned that first handful of dirt over on her—ceremonial, you know—and I said the words about committing her body to the Earth, but I didn’t mean them. I tried and I couldn’t. Inside I just kept saying ‘Please God, please God, give her back.’

“Well I knew right away when I saw her that night, it wasn’t Him that answered me, but I got my answer. And I know what you’re probably thinking is ‘it’s not her,’ right ‘it’s just her body.’ But you’d be surprised how much of a person a body is. Your brain is part of your body, your thoughts, your memories, almost all of your feelings. In fact, I sometimes wonder, if God had taken a notion to make Man without a soul, if there’d really be that much difference. The demon in her, of course, now that makes a difference, I admit. She wants things, she needs things, she feels things, that sure as Hell ain’t human. That’s why I had to give up preaching. You can love a wolf, but that don’t make her a sheep dog.

“So, yeah, to answer your question, I know _what_ she is, but I also know who she is. She’s my wife, my Myra, almost as much as she ever was. I know _what_ you and yours are too, Mr. Giles, but I don’t know _who_ you are, and I guess there’s no since making any bones about it; that scares the hell out of me. Now, it appears to me that the two of you find yourselves in sort of a desperate situation of a fairly usual but nonetheless serious kind. And I hope you can see that me and mine are doing our level best to help you out with that. So, what I’m wondering is, are you the kind of people who treat people the way they treat you and do one good turn for another, or are you the kind of people who only care _what_ someone is, not who they are or what they’ve done?”

Giles appraised the minister soberly. He felt sure that he was more than a little wrong about his ‘wife,’ but not as wrong as he would have liked for him to have been. “I know who Buffy is,” he assured the old man confidently. “As long as you are alive and willing to live with her, and as long as she does no harm to anyone else, including your daughter, your wife will have no trouble with mine.”

****

It took a few screams from passing pedestrians for Warren to realize he was wearing the wrong face. He changed as he went around the corner. He couldn’t tell if he was being chased or not, but in case he was he started looking out for a car he could get his hands on.

At the gas station up the block, he saw a tall, cool, good-looking brunette getting into a little coup that looked like it could haul some ass. Without a word, he got in right behind her, shoving her over the center console and into the passenger seat. She kicked and cured and tried to push back, but it was like having a little kid flail at you when you could pick them up and throw them if you wanted to. When she saw it was no use, she threw the keys in his face and tried to let herself out the passenger door. “Stick around, bitch,” Warren advised, pulling her back by the hair. He got her in a choke hold with one arm and reached over her to pull the door to. He engaged the child safety locks and put the car in gear.

As it became increasingly clear that no one was coming to her aid, the girl stopped shouting, shedding only a few angry tears at the indignity of being abducted. “What are you going to do with me?” she demanded as if she felt she had a right to know. The bitch didn’t scare easy, he’d give her that. It was kind of impressive really.

“Oh, you know, I thought I might rape, kill and eat you,” he said casually. “Maybe not in that order. I like to mix it up.”

The girl snorted contemptuously, “I bet you never killed anyone in your life,” she said.

“You guessed it, baby,” Warren cheerfully admitted, slipping into vamp face with a confident toss of the head, “you get to go first.” Finally, that got an honest-to-God scream of terror from her, but it didn’t last long. She was quiet for a while after that. Not a forlorn, giving up kind a quiet, a sullen waiting quiet. Warren could see she had a lot of fight in her. Unlike in life, he was finding it kind of a turn-on. Maybe because there was no doubt who was going to win. The struggle really appealed to his predatory instincts. He found himself wanting to have a more intimate interaction with her, but since he was driving, he guessed he’d settle for conversation, for the time being. He noticed the parking sticker on the windshield. “Does your boy friend go to Cal-Tech Dutton?” he asked casually, “I hear it’s a pretty good school.”

“I go there,” she said, annoyed, resentful, overlaying deeply angry and moderately scared. “Why do you care if I have a boyfriend? You’re gonna do... whatever, right?”

“I’ll ask the questions, thanks,” he said smoothly. “What do you study?”

“Electrical Engineering,” she said defiantly. “And yes, I know girls aren’t interested in that. Nicer guys than you have told me so, and I don’t give a damn.”

“What’s your name?” Warren asked. He was sort of in awe of her. He was sort of having an idea. He was sort of envisioning a future. He was sort of making a plan.

“Don’t you want to just keep calling me ‘bitch’?” she asked acidly, “doesn’t that make it easier?”

Warren shrugged. “It’s not that hard. I know what I am. I want to know who you are.”

“Katrina,” she spat defiantly, “Katrina Silber.”

Warren laughed happily. “I think I’m in love with you, Katrina Silber,” he declared. He could see in her eyes that she knew he meant it. _Now_ she was scared. She thought he was crazy, Warren realized. He let her think it. They’d both have a good laugh telling their legions of spawn about it in the centuries to come. “Oh, I’m still going to rape and murder you,” he clarified cheerfully, enjoying her hatred and fear, “but don’t worry, baby. If you believe in forever, that’s just the opening act.”

****

The music started: the traditional wedding processional by a full orchestra with violins doing the heavy lifting, reproduced by a quality digital sound system. Buffy entered the room on her mother’s arm. Annabelle followed behind them with a small digital camera, taking a few snapshots. Despite Myra’s invitation to change into something more formal, Joyce was still wearing her white linen pants suit. Buffy was wearing white too, of course, but the two outfits couldn’t have been more different. The way her shimmering gown swept up and slightly open at the front, like petals parting, gave her the appearance of a lily, like the ones she was carrying. She was beautiful, but then, he’d always thought so. She was happy. She was smiling. She was glowing. He loved her, with all his heart, just as he knew that she loved him. Even Joyce smiled, blinking back tears, when she literally gave him her daughter’s hand. Hell, even _Annabelle_ was smiling. It felt, for a moment, like the words of the old song, _‘♪ When you’re in love, the world’s in love with you♫’_ For a moment.

Loving got as far as “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God—” when suddenly there was a commotion of shouting and doors banging open.

“I told you so!” the voice of B.F. Wallace declared confidently. “It’s the closest place from the closest courthouse!”

“Yeah, you were right,” Hank replied, exhausted, exasperated, “you’re _always_ right, okay!” They were maybe ten feet from walking into the room.

“Ummm, skip to the end?” said Buffy worriedly.

“No, it’s a civil. Domestic,” said a third, not at all familiar voice. “Out of California.”

“My God,” Giles gasped, “lock the door!”

“Already did,” said Annabelle, brandishing the key. “Come on, Dad. Step on it.”

“Do you, Rupert Simon Giles, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, for better or for worse, as long as you both shall live?” Loving asked. Only the vows themselves were legally required and he’d said them enough ways to know what would do in a pinch.

“I do,” Giles said. There was knocking on the door and then banging and rattling of the knob. They ignored it as best they could.

“Do you, Buffy Anne Summers—”

“Damn it Joyce!”Hank shouted. “Open the door! I have a court order.”

“—take this man to be—”

Joyce opened her mouth to answer Hank, but Giles clasped a hand over it, startling everyone. “Don’t say anything,” he advised quietly, letting go almost at once. “It might be considered a refusal of service.”

“—your lawfully wedded husband—”

“Joyce Summers, this is the Yuma County Sheriff’s Department—”

“—for better or for worse—”

“I do,” said Buffy, holding tightly to Giles’ hand.

“—please open the door—”

“—for as long as you both shall live?”

“—and identify yourself—”

“I do,” Buffy repeated.

“Then by the power vested in me by God—”

“—I have legal documents for service of process—”

“—and by the State of Arizona—”

“—from the County of Los Angeles, State of California—”

“Goddamn it!” Wallace shouted. “Break the lock!”

“—I now pronounce you husband—”

“—and am required to inform you that any further failure or refusal to open this door—”

“—and wife.” Annabelle hurriedly passed the certificate around, showing everyone where to sign.

“—will be considered a willful refusal of a valid tender of service, from which valid service may be presumed.”

“Put your rings on and kiss the girl,” Loving concluded. “I think you won.”

They took his advice to such an extent that Joyce had to add embarrassment to the long list of negative emotions tying her guts in knots. “Should we open the door now?”she asked, worried at the extent to which armed men tended to take offense to locked doors that they thought should be unlocked.

“Wait,” said Buffy worriedly, “are we really married, legally I mean, are we really married if we don’t... you know...”

“Good Lord!” Giles gasped. Joyce looked like she might faint.

“Yes,” Reverend Loving assured her. “We get that question all the time.”

“Joyce Summers,” the firm voice of the Sheriff’s deputy began again, “this is—”

“Your too late you jackass!” Wallace fumed, “He’s got her!”

“Like Hell!” Hank shouted.

“Alright,” Joyce answered the deputy, ignoring her grandfather and her ex-husband, “we’re opening the door.” Annabelle got the key out and turned it in the lock.

“Joyce Summers,” the deputy said, handing her a sheaf of papers as soon as the door opened wide enough to get them through, “you have been served.” Sure enough, the first thing on top was an Ex Parte Order of Custody signed by a Los Angeles County Family Court Judge at 3:27PST that afternoon.

“It’s too late,” she said, “Buffy’s married. No one has custody of her anymore.”

“She’s not married,” Hank insisted, bursting into the room, nearly knocking the officer over, waiving his copy of the Order. “You can’t let her get married if I have custody!”

“Look,” said the deputy, “I’m just serving a civil, but I can call for an assist if I have to. The paper says the girl’s got to go with her father.”

“Over my dead body,” said Giles hotly.

“Good idea!” said Wallace, “Deputy, shoot him.”

“Arrest him,” Hank chimed in. “He raped my daughter!”

“Oh, come off it, Dad!” Buffy shouted back. “Anyways I just saved you like fifteen thousand dollars in child support. That should make you happy.”

“‘Rape!’” Giles scoffed. “What you do to words in this country ought to be a crime!”

“What the hell are you saying about my country?” the deputy demanded.

“Sorry,” said Buffy, “He’s from England, he doesn’t know any better. Off topic, Honey, not helping.”

“What are you gonna do, Hank?” Joyce asked reasonably, “take her back to L.A.? The minute, _her_ judge finds out, they’ll come pick her up.”

“I’ll call them myself,” Buffy threatened, wrapping her arms tighter around her husband, who held her tighter in return, “I’m not going back with you.”

Joyce shuffled through the papers, looking for something to clarify the situation. “Look,” she told the deputy, “this says the Order is ‘valid from the date and time of service.’”

“Yeah?” said the officer warily, “so?”

“The wedding was finished before the papers were served.”

“—even if you count from the verbal warning,” Annabelle chimed in, “I’ll testify to that.”

“So, there was no jurisdiction at the time of service,” Giles added.

The deputy looked at his paperwork again. He turned to Hank. “You know, I think they’re right,” he said.

“Of course they’re right!” shouted Wallace, fit to spit, getting in the officer’s face. “That’s why I told you to break the damned lock you slack jawed moron!”

“Sir!” said the deputy, going for firm and calm but not quite making it. He laid his hand on the butt of his gun and let it rest there. “Please back up!”

“Oh my God!” said Buffy. “Could everyone please just calm the hell down? Nobody died here. This is my wedding. Dad, Grampa, I’m married, to a wonderful man, who loves me and who—unlike my last boyfriend—is not a rapist or a serial killer.”Wallace snorted his opinion of this assessment. “So just... try to be happy for me, and let’s let the nice man with the badge and the gun go help someone who needs it.”

The two irate father figures relaxed their aggressive posture somewhat. “I think you can go officer,” Giles informed him calmly, “I believe the situation is under control.”

“Is it?” he asked the other two men.

“I don’t plan to kill him tonight,” Wallace replied.

Hank shook his head, cursing under his breath. “Is this the way you want it?” he said out loud, looking steadily at Buffy.

“Yeah,” she informed him defiantly, “It is.”

“Well don’t come crying to me when he’s done with you!” he declared bitterly.

“Oh, honestly, Hank!” Joyce said, but he was already walking out the door.

“Now, wait just a second!” Wallace called after him.

“You can take B.F. with you, too,” he called over his shoulder. “I mean it! I’m done!”

“Daddy, wait!” Buffy called, loosening her grip on her husband just a little in contemplation of running after him. She wasn’t crying yet, but there was an audible lump in her throat that made Giles angry on her behalf.

“I’m done!!” Hanks shouted louder than before.

“Fine!” Buffy shouted back, blinking away tears.

“You stupid bastard!” Giles gasped with awe and indignation, starting to follow the man himself. The deputy blocked his path. He didn’t want any trouble. Giles went back and laid a hand on Buffy’s shoulder, while she cried in her mother’s arms for a couple of minutes. Wallace hovered nearby, looking somehow both sullen and apologetic. The deputy left as soon as Hank’s car started. Annabelle found she needed to be in another room doing anything else.

“He loves you,” Giles tried to reassure his wife, “if he didn’t he wouldn’t have come here.”

Buffy straightened up wiping her eyes. “He brought the police to raid our wedding,” she pointed out plaintively, “How is that love?”

The four elders exchanged a look that said they were all in perfect agreement. “You’d be amazed what goes on in the name of love,” Giles said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Especially love that runs smack up against one’s pride. He’ll be back. Well and if not, to hell with him.”

Joyce and Wallace nodded their agreement. “To hell with him,” the old man repeated with conviction.

“Ten minutes ago you were on his side,” Buffy pointed out indignantly, feeling a little defensive on her father’s behalf despite the circumstances.

Wallace shrugged. “Ten minutes ago, I thought I could stop you. You’re a married woman now, for better or for worse.”

Giles regarded the old man skeptically. He didn’t believe for a minute that he would give up that easily. He still had to be thought of, ultimately, as an enemy. However, it was entirely possible that he now realized that Buffy’s and Giles’ interests were aligned to such an extent that he could not openly oppose one and still support the other, that he would have to give Buffy time to regret her marriage before making any hostile move against her husband. It was also possible that he simply needed a ride home and a little time to think of another plan of attack. It hardly mattered. It wasn’t as though they could actually drive off and leave him stranded in Yuma. And whatever he planned to do, he wasn’t going to do it tonight.

****

Rupert didn’t come home by nightfall. It didn’t matter. Gwendolyn knew where to find the key. He hadn’t changed as much as he thought he had. She let herself in to wait. His apartment looked for all the world like the home of a stable, respectable middle aged school teacher, as long as you didn’t open the wrong cabinet or look too closely at the contents of the bookshelves. Even without those clues, Gwendolyn Post knew better. She smiled when she found his old record collection. She pulled the White Album out of the middle of the milk crate and held it in her hands for a while, smiling sardonically at her former self. Even at nineteen, a girl ought to know better than to think she’s going to marry a man who always skips “Julia” and always listens to “Revolution Nine.”

Well he might not have changed, but she had. Even if what Quentin suspected was true—especially if what Quentin suspected was true—she was really going to enjoy this assignment. For decades, she had dreaded the disgrace of being expelled from the Watcher’s Council or worse still Stricken from the Registry. Yet now that the “worst” had actually happened, she found it strangely liberating. She didn’t have to play by their rules anymore. They had no more power over her, not even Quentin, no matter what he thought, certainly not Rupert Giles.

Still, she had a debt to repay dear Rupert, for helping to make her the woman she was today. He had not been her first taste of Chaos, but he had been the richest, the one that lingered on her tongue through all the years she’d spent struggling to tow the line. Of course, she’d been told she’d never seen his darkest side, and she believed it. But his ‘upswing’ had been lower than her ‘rock bottom.’ It was what the twelve steppers called a ‘leveling experience.’ Well, she’d found lower places since. The thirteenth step is accepting that you _are_ the problem.

At last Gwendolyn knew what she was. She was a woman in control of her own destiny. She would use whatever powers were available. She would bend them by her will to her own advantage. Power belonged to whoever had the strength to wield it, whether it came from a god, or a demon, or the Del Bacco County School Board.  Or from Quentin Travers.

****

“How did you know?” Joyce asked her grandfather glumly when Giles and Buffy had gone to change back into their street clothes. The Lovings hadn’t left the building, but they had made themselves scarce.

Wallace sighed. “How long have I known you, child?”

“This wasn’t _my_ idea,” Joyce assured him.

“No, but when I realized what he was planning—which was all there in what he’d actually said once I had time to think about it—I knew you’d go along with it. The only other thing you could do would be to call the police, and you never could disappoint anyone that much, especially Buffy. I have to admit, I didn’t think it would happen this soon, but then I called the gallery and got Carol. She couldn’t tell me where you’d gone or why, so I knew this had to be it.”

“Have you told anyone besides Hank?”

“Hank’s lawyer put it in the court papers, which I think you have a copy of there. He sent it to Doug Graff too, but he wouldn’t take it.”

“I fired him,” Joyce admitted. “I’ve been using someone Rupert recommended, actually. Buffy has... criminal law problems. She could be arrested right now if the judge in Sunnydale finds out she’s out after six o’clock, never mind leaving the state. No one in Sunnydale knows about this, do they?”

Wallace shook his head. “Not unless Hank told them. Of course, in two to four weeks, they’ll be able to find it in a simple records check, but they’d have to know to look. Who are you keeping it a secret from?”

“The school mostly,” Joyce said. “He’s not ready to quit his job yet.”

Wallace sniffed derisively. “That’ll work out well,” he said. “Is he really that worried about getting one more paycheck?”

The way Joyce paused told him there was a lot more to it than that, but she didn’t share. “Buffy’s pregnant,” she said instead, trying to let him think they really were just hoping to eke out another month’s pay.

“You don’t say,” said Wallace dryly.

“I guess that’s kind of obvious,” Joyce admitted.

“Hank confirmed it for me,” Wallace conceded. “He thought it was some even bigger scumbag, some Mexican gang leader.”

Joyce had to suppress a laugh, but she didn’t bother to correct him. It would only raise more questions. “The best thing about Buffy marrying Rupert is that now she can’t marry Angel, even in Mexico,” she said.

“Do you really think she would?” he asked, concerned.

“Not really,” Joyce admitted. “From what I gather, she hasn’t been seeing him for a couple of months. She just didn’t want us to blame Rupert for her being pregnant until they decided what to do about it.”

Wallace was quiet for a minute. “He’s a dangerous man,” he said finally. Joyce had no doubt who he meant. “I don’t really think he killed those women, not with his own hands, anyway. I don’t see how he could have. But whatever’s behind them being dead, he’s a part of it, and it’s something big. I don’t know if he’s a spook or... something else, but he’s no librarian.”Joyce didn’t argue with him. For one thing he was right. For another, what she knew, there was no explaining, not to Grampa Wallace.

Joyce’s silence told Wallace she already knew a lot more than he did about what Buffy’s new husband was mixed up in. She obviously had her reasons for letting him marry her daughter rather than rot in jail, but for the life of him, Wallace couldn’t figure what they were. Even if it made Buffy hate her guts, it still would have been better to keep her away from this guy. At seventeen, even ‘true love’ was likely to wear off after a few months apart, and these days, pregnancy wasn’t exactly an incurable condition nor for that matter was unwed motherhood such an unbearable shame. What in blue blazes had his mother died for all those years ago if her own descendants couldn’t do any better than this?“Sometimes I think I’ve lived too long,” he said out loud. “I feel like time is running backwards, or sideways maybe.”

Joyce wasn’t sure what to make of that. She guessed he was just tired. She knew he was disappointed in her. “No one else thinks you’ve lived too long,” she said, mainly for something positive to say. “We all know we’re lucky to have you around.”

He laughed. “Except when you have to barricade the doors to keep me from meddling in your lives,” he pointed out acerbically.

“It was my decision to make,” she said tiredly. “I did what I thought was best. That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate that you’re trying to do the same thing.”

“Well,” he pointed out, “none of the decisions are any of ours to make now.”

“No,” Joyce said. “They’re Buffy’s. Who knows, maybe she’ll do better than I did. Maybe in fifty years she’ll look back and think this was the best decision either of us ever made.”

“You don’t really believe that,” Wallace stated matter-of-factly.

“Honestly?” Joyce admitted. “I expect to bury them both. I just hope it’s not this year or next.”

****

Buffy could have used someone’s help getting out of the borrowed wedding dress, but Annabelle was nowhere to be seen and she didn’t feel like listening to her mother worry. Instead, she stretched and fumbled until she got the zipper lose enough to wriggle out of it on her own. After the dramatic nail-biting conclusion to the ceremony, she knew she ought to feel victorious, or at least relieved. Instead she felt disappointed, cheated. What should have been a beautiful, meaningful, _spiritual_ moment of two souls freely joining in the sight of God or the Universe or Whatever had been reduced to a tug of war between her husband and her father. ‘You’re trying to kidnap what I have rightfully stolen.’ It felt, at the risk of using a trendy, modern cliché, disempowering. It left her feeling less like a loving wife than a disobedient daughter.

If her wedding day had left her feeling less than entirely married, her wedding night wasn’t shaping up to be much better. Buffy could just about barely imagine making love to Giles in her tiny, teeny bedroom, biting her lip to keep from making too much noise that her mother would have to hear. She could not imagine doing it with Grampa Wallace in the house. If he heard one gasp, if she had to think for one moment that he knew that at that exact moment she was being filled and stretched by a man’s penis; the whole experience would be traumatically creepy for everyone. Anyways, she was exhausted, and she knew she wasn’t the only one. It was still a three hour drive to Sunnydale. No more rest than he’d had in the last couple of days, she knew Giles would be lucky to be able to get his eyelids up by the time they got home.

Just about the time Buffy got her pants and shirt back on, she heard a hesitant knock on the door. “Who is it?” she said automatically. It wasn’t her door, but two years of fighting for her life had cured her of saying ‘come in.’

“It’s me,” Giles said. He sounded tired and worried. Buffy opened the door. He was back in his familiar uniform looking so much like her dependable old Watcher that the last three weeks could almost have been a dream. But they weren’t. He was her husband. She was his wife. Two souls joined in the sight of God or the Universe or Whatever. Two people in a boatload of trouble and in it together.

He came inside and shut the door. They held one another in their arms for a long moment. It made them both feel better, stronger, comforted, relieved, happy, in love. Giles stooped a bit and put his hand under Buffy’s chin, lifting her face to his. He kissed her gently on the lips. She kissed him back. She sighed contentedly and laid her head on his chest as he wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair.

Suddenly, Buffy felt an upheaval of a not at all emotional kind. Giles was only stunned for a second as she pushed him out of the way, unable to articulate that she needed him to move from between her and the door of the ladies’ room. He waited a minute or so to follow her, listening for the sound of retching to subside, looking around for something like a paper cup. All he found was Myra Loving’s mostly empty coffee mug, which, thankfully, smelled like coffee. He rinsed it in the ladies’ room sink and brought Buffy some water.

“I don’t know why they call it ‘morning’ sickness,” she said, almost apologetically. Giles had always believed it was the same proverbial sense of ‘morning’ as ‘morgan gabe’ or ‘morning after pill,’ but he kept his linguistic analysis to himself. “I let my stomach get too empty is what,” Buffy explained.

“It’s after seven in Sunnydale,” he noted, looking at his watch. “There’s no point hurrying back now. We might as well go to dinner. Someplace nice, let’s celebrate. In the meantime, we can stop and get some crackers or something.”

“Alright,” Buffy agreed. “We need to get going anyway. I do _not_ want them wondering why we’ve been back here so long.”

Giles made a slightly unpleasant face. “Speaking of,” he said, “I hope you won’t be too disappointed if...”

“...if you don’t tear my clothes off and fuck me within an inch of my life while Mom and Grampa Wallace try not the listen?” Buffy concluded. “I think I’ll survive. For nostalgic purposes, though, we should probably count last Friday as our official wedding night.”

“Second the motion,” he said, moving in for another kiss, ignoring the fact that the taste of her mouth was not altogether pleasant. “There being none to speak in opposition,” he went on good-humouredly, “the Resolution carries.”

Buffy grinned and let out a fair imitation of a melancholy sigh. “I guess it’s true what they say,” she teased, “as soon as you get married, your sex life is the first thing to go.”

“I’ll be off work at four o’clock tomorrow,” he reminded her. “We do still have one night before the full moon.”Now it was Buffy’s turn to make a less than pleased expression. “What is it?” Giles asked.

“I think we may have a date to go buy flamethrowers.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” he said. “I’m too tired. You can tell me tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Buffy repeated dreamily. “I _like_ tomorrow. That’s the day I get to wake up in bed with my husband.”

 


	6. Disturbing Images: Don't Close Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile back in Sunnydale and in a little town called 'Boston', everything is going to hell in a hand-basket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The First Chapter of Part II: The Lesser Light

Sunnydale, CA, March 10, 1998

There was a photograph. Sheila must have been six or seven. Walking on the beach. Smiling in the sun. Filled with joy. She was holding the hand of a still-sort-of-young woman in a breezy sundress and impossibly stationary bouffant hairdo. They had the same smile. They had the same laughing eyes. Her mother, Olivia Levine. Another photo. Sheila was ten or eleven. She was wearing that distant, distracted smile that never quite touched her eyes. They might as well have been marked before and after. Willow wrote on her note pad: Fire, 1960-1965?She kept digging. Maybe she could narrow it down further. Maybe there were other things she could learn from her father’s keepsakes. She laughed at herself. Like how to love Sheila Rosenberg? She didn’t think that was something you could get from photographs.

****

Katrina really tried hard not to cry. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. He was getting more than enough of that at her expense. But his hands were so cold. So, so cold. They felt like the hands of death roughly caressing her body, groping for the source of life, to snuff it out. By the time he forced her thighs apart, she was weeping uncontrollably. The plan had been to do whatever he said, to stay alive, to wait for him to let his guard down. But panic overwhelmed her pragmatism. She couldn’t let him get inside of her. It wasn’t right. He wasn’t human. She felt like her soul was at stake. She tried to kick him, but he grabbed her leg and forced it much too far back breaking the ball of her hip off in the socket in one sharp, effortless motion. Katrina screamed in pain and terror. She tried to raise her hands, to claw at his face, but he casually draped one arm across her upper body, pinning both arms to her sides. It was too late. She felt his freezing flesh plunge into her, like a knife to the heart.

“Yeah, Baby,” he said, “that’s my girl,” exactly as if he thought they were sharing some kind of joint experience. Katrina’s eyes were closed, but she could still hear the smarmy smile in his grating voice. She opened her eyes and spat in his deformed face. He laughed with delight and amusement, moving inside of her, hard and fast, tearing flesh that wasn’t prepared to yield. She had meant to say something along the lines of, ‘I’m not your girl,’ but her throat felt welded shut. He was pressing down hard on her chest now, seemingly without even noticing. She gasped for breath but could never get her lungs more than half full. “You like that, huh?” he said, taking her gasps as encouragement. “You feminist types like it rough, don’t you?” Katrina made a noise that wanted to be a snarl, but was probably more of a whimper. She closed her eyes again, preferring blindness to sight. At least he didn’t take too long. Within two or three minutes he was spewing his cold semen into her. He relaxed the pressure on her chest a little, letting her breathe more freely. Disgust surpassed fear and pain as her focal emotion. She wanted to wash his nastiness out of her before she died.

But he wasn’t through using her body. His dick was limp, but he didn’t bother to take it out. He just let it lie inside of her like some kind of tiny dead animal while he put his face to her chest and slurped most of her right breast into his mouth. He suckled like an infant for a minute or more. Then, suddenly, he bit down hard and sharp. Katrina felt his fangs, like a snakes. Except, instead of injecting death into her, they seemed to be drawing life out. Maybe she was going crazy she thought hopefully, hallucinating from the trauma of being raped. Maybe that would explain his shape shifting face too. But she couldn’t quite buy it. He was drawing substance, sustenance from her, ‘...rape, kill and eat... maybe not in that order...’ Hope had no place in this scenario.

Katrina tried to make her mind as well as her body as still and quiet as possible while she waited for life to cease. She could feel her vitality ebbing steadily away. It would all be over soon. She just had to be patient another minute or so. She had the crazy thought that being dead would keep her from finishing the presentation she had due on Friday. She’d get marked down if it was late. Such a silly thought, rolling around in an almost empty brain. Suddenly, Warren withdrew his fangs from her flesh. “Okay, Baby,” he said, “now for the surprise.”

****

They met in the cloak room. It was the most private place they had. Drusilla’s old room was a casualty ward, and people were coming and going from the sanctuary all the time now. Besides, the mortified Slayer, hanging there in her vaguely cruciform posture, made the place feel all that much more like a church.

“Well?” Spike demanded impatiently.

“There are twenty-eight of us left,” Edwards reported, “counting eight seriously wounded, including Angel and Zanya.”

“Damn,” Spike swore with quiet conviction.

“So far, the Miers kid is the only defection from the Pump Station, and no one has left from the Church, but everyone’s abandoned the Junction and all but one from the Crypt.”

“Damn,” Spike repeated.

“Guess which one stayed,” Edwards said with a grim smile.

“Ah, bugger,” said Spike. “How bad is morale? Are they just pissing and moaning, or has anyone tried to have a very serious talk with you about your obvious natural leadership qualities?”

“Somewhere in between,” Edwards said. “I don’t see anyone else flexing their ‘leadership qualities’ yet at least. But a few of the smart ones have pointed out that they never actually meet anyone who’s been with us more than five days and everybody knows what kind of shape Angel is in. They’re feeling like they’ve been had. And they’re questioning the ritual.”

“We won’t last two days like this,” Spike ruminated, “let alone two and a half weeks.” It had gone beyond what could be solved by getting tough. There weren’t enough vamps he could trust to get rough with the ones he couldn’t and the last thing they needed was self inflicted casualties.

Edwards’ expression turned even more grim. “The truth is we’ll be lucky if we have two days to worry about it. I finally got a chance to talk to Willy a little more about everything that happened today with the Slayer. They’ve figured out about the ritual, or think they have, but they’re expecting it to go down at the full moon.”

“Mother of Christ!” Spike spat.

“They’re bound to attack tonight or tomorrow,” Edwards agreed.

“We could strike first,” said Spike contemplatively. “Same plan as before, burn the house down, flush her out.”

“Assuming she’s home,” Edwards pointed out. “Assuming we even know where she calls home these days. Besides, if we take enough troops to even have a chance against her, we’ll be leaving this place wide open.”

“Meanwhile,” said Spike, “we’ve got what ten rogue vamps out tearing up the town?”

“Twelve,” said Edwards, “counting Miers.”

“So the town fathers are bound to be feeling all betrayed by morning.”

“If they join forces with the Slayer, there’ll be no living in this town,” Edwards predicted.

Suddenly Spike was smiling broadly. “Edwards, my good man,” he said, “that’s the best idea you’ve ever had.”

Edwards regarded him skeptically. “Which is?” Normally, he hated for Spike to be cryptic and cheerful at the same time. He was dangerous in that mood. But right now, they needed to be dangerous.

“Join forces with the Slayer,” Spike declared.

“Do what?” Edwards asked incredulously.

“You said she’s carrying one of those cell phones now.”

“Yes,” he admitted nervously.

“So, we’ll call her little partner in crime—she’s supposed to be staying home nights, and I bet she’s listed—and get her to tip her off that there’s a raiding party set to ravage the town. Tell her to start at the Bronze and work her way towards Weatherly Park. None of that lot is likely to get much more creative. With any luck, she’ll be too busy sorting them out to attack us, at least for tonight, and by tomorrow, we’ll think of something else to distract her. _And_ , when she kills them all, folks will start to see that it’s safer to stay here.”

And that was why Spike was the leader. Edwards nodded. “We should concentrate here,” he said. “Abandon the Pump Station.”

“I agree,” said Spike.

“It’s no good,” said Zanya serenely, startling both of them. Spike had forgotten she was there. She was kneeling over Angel. Kneeling was as close as she could get to standing in her current condition. “They won’t stay in _this_ place on your word,” she went on, without looking up at them, “Not now.”

“Feeling better then, are we?” Spike said dryly. “Gone straight from jabbering and drooling to dispensing words of wisdom?”Zanya glanced up at him disdainfully then returned her attention to her charge. Typical Englishman. He couldn’t understand her language so that made her a barbarian.

“She may be right,” Edwards pointed out. “ _We_ didn’t want to come here, and we know all the reasons why.”

“Well then,” said Spike scornfully, “what do you and your sagacious lady suggest?”

“Tell them the truth,” Zanya said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“That we’ve played them all for fools and gotten half of them killed or mutilated?” Spike objected. “Somehow, I don’t see that going very well.”

“Tell them the ritual will make us whole and strong,” Zanya clarified. “If the pool is sufficiently filled, then completed with the blood of the virgin Slayer, there should be enough power to heal even those who do not know that they are ill. Tell them that is _how_ we will tip the balance between light and darkness. We will be made strong enough to walk into the light.”

Spike smiled. He liked the lady’s take on the concept of truth telling.

“Do you really think so?” Edwards asked with shocking credulity.

“Of course,” said Zanya solemnly.

“Good enough for me,” said Spike. “We’ll even give them a choice: stay and be healed or go and be hunted by the Slayer. But anyone who stays must submit unquestioningly to my authority, and anyone who goes can’t come back unless he brings me a Mexican virgin. The last thing we need is to make anymore local headlines.”

****

There it was. The Sunnydale Sun-Times, Saturday, July 21, 1962. The headline read: “Fire Claims Mayor’s Killers.” The piece was surprisingly short. It said a lot.

 

Last night a fire of unknown origin claimed the life of Johanna Levine age 71, widely known to be responsible for the July 14th murder of our beloved Sunnydale Mayor Richard Wilkins Jr., near her home on Crawford Street. Also killed in the blaze were her four daughters (Sarah 54, Jessica 52, Marla 51, and Dina 49),twelve granddaughters (Diana 36, Minerva 34, Leah 35, Orpah 34, Hanna 33, Shoshanna 32, Hester 30, Mara 29, Tamar 27, Betsy 24, Susan 21, and Olivia 30) and nine great-granddaughters (Margaret 17, Katherine 14, Mary 11,Rachel 14, Helen 12, Sandra 12, Abigail 13, Irene 10, and Pandora 11); all of whom were complicit in the Mayor’s death. The sole survivor of the conflagration, Sheila Kaminski age 8, although a great-granddaughter of Levine, is not believed to have been involved in the murder or the practices that led to it. Numerous witnesses stated that the child was examined at the scene and found to be in an acceptable condition. “This was divine justice,” said Acting Mayor Richard Wilkins III, “not by the hand of Man, but by the hand of God.”

 

Oz closed his laptop but let it sit where it was, weighing on his chest. Twenty-two women and girls killed. ‘Numerous witnesses.’ He had a feeling he knew at least one of them. The waxing gibbous moon was shining outside his window, filling the otherwise darkened room with a pale, silvery light. Oz was a stranger in his own house, and he was afraid.

****

There were not that many ‘good’ restaurants in Yuma, especially without a reservation, but they did manage to get into the kind of place where no one throws anything on the floor. By the time the wedding party was seated and served it was a quarter past nine. Everyone was starving, crackers notwithstanding. “I’m ringing,” Buffy said disappointedly, getting up from the table with a longing look at her rosemary chicken. “I bet it’s Cordelia.”

“Perhaps you’d better take it in the ladies’ room,” Giles suggested. It did not escape Wallace’s notice that he was the only person not in on the looks being exchanged.

“Hello,” Buffy said mildly disgruntledly, as she left the table.

“Buffy!” Willow gasped, “Where are you?”

“Oh,” said Buffy cheerfully, getting at little excited at the thought of sharing her news, “didn’t Cordelia tell you?”

“Yeah, congratulations,” Willow said hurriedly, distractedly. “How far are you from Sunnydale right now?”

“We’re still in Yuma,” Buffy said, puzzled, not knowing whether to be offended or worried. “No way we’ll be home before midnight, more like one o’clock, why?”

“Vampires,” Willow said miserably, “supposedly a lot of them out hunting tonight.”

“According to who?” Buffy asked.

“I don’t know,” Willow explained. “Some guy. Creepy sounding, with this weird, fake Brooklyn accent like he thinks he’s auditioning for some kind of retro film noir spoof.”

“Willy!” said Buffy exasperated.

“That guy who tried to sell you out to Spike that time?” said Willow doubtfully. “Why would he try to help us?”

“It’s probably a trap,” Buffy said matter-of-factly, “it’s probably also true. Willy always plays both sides.” She paused a moment. “Or all three! What did he say _exactly_?”

“He said the vamps were tired of being cooped up, and they were ready to cut loose. Big group hunt, all the usual places. The Bronze, downtown, maybe the park. He said they didn’t care about the moon anymore.”

Buffy grinned, “So he’s turned on Spike. He’s working for Angel. ‘Don’t ever say your good friend Willy don’t come through in a pinch.’ Where’s Kendra?”

“I was sort of hoping you knew,” Willow said. “I thought maybe Giles called and sent her out on patrol.”

“Well, find her. Drive, don’t walk. I don’t want you getting killed. Tell her to do an intensive patrol downtown, and if and only if that’s quiet, check out the park, then call us and check in. We can be back by twelve if we leave now. Meanwhile, call the Bronze. Tell them... I don’t know, tell them there’s a bomb or something, just get the place shut down.”

“What are you going to do when you get here?” Willow asked.

“We’re going to hit Angel, at the Hellmouth, hard and fast, tonight. That’s obviously what he’s afraid of. That’s why he’s trying to distract us with Spike.”

“Buffy,” said Willow cautioningly, “there could be a hundred vamps down there.”

“Yeah, but I bet there’s not,” Buffy reasoned, “Willy said, these vamps have been cooped up right? I bet they were Angel’s guys. They’ve left him for Spike, but he can’t high tail it for two more days because of the moon. So he figures he’ll send me after Spike’s guys and kill two birds with one stone.”

“That’s a lot of betting,” Willow pointed out skeptically.

“So we’ll do some recon, first,” Buffy insisted. But it didn’t take a genius to realize that if there _were_ a hundred vamps down there, it might be a recon she never came back from. Still, she didn’t really see a better option.

“Maybe we should wait a day for Cordelia’s flamethrowers,” Willow suggested.

“I’m... not really loving the civilians with flamethrowers plan, Wil,” Buffy objected. “Besides, we _know_ he feels vulnerable now. I don’t want to give him time to regroup.”

“We don’t _know_ anything,” Willow pointed out, “except maybe that there are a bunch of vamps out tearing up the town right now.”

“You’re right. We’re wasting time. Go. Find Kendra. Try to get a handle on the situation. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Then we’ll... do whatever makes the most sense.”Buffy was already walking back to the table as they said their goodbyes. As she flipped her phone closed and sat down, Giles gave her a steady, expectant look. “It’s a Tuesday night in Sunnydale,” she confirmed grimy.

“Damn,” he said, and raised a hand to flag the waiter. “Check please. And four boxes. Some disposable forks and napkins if you have any.” The waiter nodded. “We’ll eat in the car,” he told his companions.

“Like Hell,” Wallace protested, still cutting up his steak.

“Is it _that_ serious,” Joyce asked tiredly. She was hungry too. Not to mention she didn’t like her grandfather to feel put out.

“It is,” said Buffy earnestly. The boxes arrived and, without another word, Joyce started helping Buffy pack up while Giles paid the waiter.

“Could someone tell me what the blazing hell is going on?” Wallace demanded angrily, fork in hand, apparently ready to defend his steak.

“We’ll talk about it in the car,” Buffy told him.

“No we won’t,” Giles countered.

“Then we’ll talk about _that_ in the car,” Buffy said. “Come on, we’re wasting time. We’re going,” she told Wallace in a firm, motherly sort of way. “If you want that steak, pack it up.”

To everyone’s amazement, the old man seemed to comply, looking sour. But when they got out to the parking lot, he sat down on the hood of Giles’ car and crossed his arms. “Now,” he said in a calm, businesslike way, “are we going to sit here all night or is someone going to tell me what’s going on.”

Buffy sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. She effortlessly lifted the old man off the car and gently set him in the passenger seat. He only weighed 185 pounds. While he was still working his mouth trying to get words to come out, she motioned for Giles and Joyce to get in the car. “Come on,” she said. “The vampires are attacking again.”

****

“A bomb?” Cranston snorted disbelievingly. “In the club?”

“Yes, Sir,” his nervous subordinate repeated. Edgar had to constantly fight the urge to slip into demon form in his boss’s presence. Cranston didn’t tolerate vamp face. He’d worn his human features so long they’d literally stuck that way. He killed with a knife and drank from a cup. He was sophisticated.

“Someone’s trying to scare off our customers,” he concluded coolly, heading for the small storeroom behind the offices. “I’m going to find out why. Don’t disturb me,” he laughed brutally, “even if a bomb goes off.”

****

Xander later said he never heard anything. Cordelia noticed that her cell phone was ringing, sort of. It’s just that, when faced with a choice between having an orgasm and answering the phone, a person has to mind her priorities. “I’m getting pretty good at this,” Xander grinned, collapsing into her arms. “One of these days I’m gonna turn pro and make a million dollars.” Neither of them had another thought about the phone or why someone might be trying to reach them. Until the grinning vampire tapped on the car window.

It was an old one, comfortable in its monstrous visage. It was hideous, confident, happy. And hungry. For a moment Xander and Cordelia were both frozen, stunned. It punched the glass. The window exploded. They both screamed. The steering wheel was impossibly far away. The keys were in Cordelia’s pocket, in her pants, wherever they were. There was a stake in her purse, wherever it was. She’d never used one. The vampire reached in through the broken window. Still grinning, it gently pulled the tiny knob to unlock the door. Then it ripped the door off, laughing. Cordelia looked at Xander. They knew they had only one option.

****

“I know what we should do!” Brick said.

“What?” Rocky asked. Gabe, Harley and Dieter listened intently. Brick always had all the good ideas, him and Axel.

“We should go get some girls—nice ones, young ones—fuck ’em to death and drink to Axel.”

“Yeah,” Rocky laughed, “‘virgins’.” The whole crew laughed uproariously.

“Man,” Gabe said, “I can’t believe we put up with that ritual shit for almost a week!”

“And from Spike, too,” Harley chimed in. “Man is he losing it! It’s like he thinks he’s the blessed Master or something!”

Dieter didn’t say anything. He let the others talk. When it came right down to it, he was pretty much of the opinion that when Spike finished working his mojo and took over the town, him and his whole crew were going to be in a shitload of trouble for leaving their posts. If he had had a suggestion to make, it would have been to leave town. Dieter didn’t make suggestions. He followed them. He followed his friends, like he was following them now, to the Bronze.

****

When everyone had had their say and made their choice, there were twenty three of them, cripples and gimps included, all encamped in the Church. ‘Less than two dozen,’ exactly the strength they had claimed to have in the beginning. Not many of them seemed to believe the ‘strong enough to walk into the light’ bit, but one of the older ones had heard of the Healing of the Dark Moon and could at least vouch that it was a real thing. It seemed everyone had something they wanted fixed; a deaf ear, a blind eye, an undescended testicle, _something_. And then there were the six with the missing hands and fingers, and the mates of some of them.

A call had gone out, through Willy’s and a half a dozen other channels: ‘bring us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses.’ No vamp was too fucked up to be accepted. And for any but the defectors, the apostates, admission was free. If he could just pull this off, Spike knew he would have the most loyal core group of followers any vampire ever had. Hell, they’d make him a bloody saint. It might even be enough to make Angel show him some respect. All he had to do was fashion a band of broken up misfits into an army that could resist the Slayer.

****

Cordelia noticed the branches and saplings snapping against her bare skin, cutting her like a slavers lash, but she didn’t really feel the wounds. There wasn’t time. The dominant sensation was the rush of the cool night air as she passed through it at a gallop racing her own galloping heart. Xander stayed two or three steps behind her. She had no clear sense of whether he was running as fast as he could or holding back to stay between her and the vampire. She had no notion what she would do if he started to fall behind.

The vampire loped after them at a comfortable, steady pace. It was gaining. Xander had an overwhelming urge to climb a tree, but he knew that didn’t sound right. “A house!” he shouted, “we have to find a house!”They were about three miles from town, but Cordelia didn’t waste her breath saying so. The vampire was ten yards behind Xander now. If it wasn’t for the trees, it could jump once and be on top of them. They needed a plan that didn’t involve divine intervention or phantom architecture, and they needed it fast. It had to make use of the fact that there were two of them. It was the only advantage they had. Distract and surprise. They still needed a weapon.

Xander thought Cordelia must be tiring, because he found himself at her side at last. “Come on!” he urged, grabbing her arm. She sagged against him and pressed her lips against his ear. He tried to push her back onto her feet. There would be no goodbye kisses, not tonight.

“Let him catch me she whispered.”

He was shocked, anguished. “Cordelia no!”

“Double back and stake him with a tree limb,” she clarified impatiently, before screaming bitterly, “Don’t leave me here you son-of-a-bitch!” Xander was still stunned, still processing. She grabbed a hold of his shirt like she was clinging to him for protection. With a very convincing scream of rage and panic, she threw herself to the ground. From twenty feet behind them, where the vampire now was, it must have looked like he had pushed her, sacrificing her to save himself. At least it _could_ look like that, if only he would get his ass moving. “Run!” Cordelia shouted. “Run you coward!”He finally took the hint. She hoped it was in time. The vampire was five yards away and closing fast.

Cordelia scrambled to her feet. Her intention was to put on a convincing but futile show of trying to get away. Her method of doing that was to try as hard as she could to get away. It worked faster than she expected. He was on her in twenty seconds. He didn’t pounce like a tiger or tackle her like a football player. He grasped her firmly by the shoulder and pulled her body close to his, wrapping her in his arms. His unbreakable hold was a chilling mockery of a lovers embrace. Cordelia screamed. She cried. She kicked. She pounded her fists against his chest. With unnerving gentleness, the vampire smoothed the hair back from her neck and shoulder, smiling.

But the vampire’s kiss was not gentle. Sharp teeth ripped savagely into her throat. Blood gushed from her jugular. He sucked it down greedily, keening like an animal. Cordelia felt weak and nauseous. She was beginning to question the brilliance of her plan. Where the hell was Xander? Maybe he’d decided that staying alive was the better part of being a coward after all. Maybe devotion in the face of death was a little too much to ask from a charter member of the We Hate Cordelia Club.

Suddenly the vampire released her, screaming in pain and terror. Dust and ash rained over her. Blood continued to gush. The sky was falling away from her. Someone hit her hard with the Earth. All was dark and silence.

****

“The Bronze is _still_ open,” Willow reported, worried, frustrated. “I’ve called in the threat three times, from three different payphones! How much longer until you get here?” It was just after nine-thirty.

“We’re just going through El Centro,” Buffy told her. “It’s going to be like eleven-thirty. I’d say we’d hurry, but we can’t afford to get stopped. You don’t have _any_ idea where Kendra went?”

“No,” Willow confirmed miserably. “I can’t find Xander and Cordelia either.”Buffy almost laughed. She knew where they would be. Young lovers. A beautiful moonlit night. No home of their own to make love in. They’d be at the Overlook, the same place that Oz had attacked them almost exactly one lunar month ago. All the kids went there. Hell, the place was so well known, Buffy had killed more than a few vampires there. She’d even heard them joking about it, calling it ‘dinner and a show.’

Suddenly Buffy had a very uneasy feeling. It was followed by the sickening realization that even if she had known for a fact that Xander and Cordelia were being killed by vampires in the lovers’ lane, there was very little she could do about it right now. She could hardly send Willow to get killed checking it out. “Don’t worry about them right now,” she said, “they’re probably just making out somewhere. Focus on finding Kendra. Use magic, whatever it takes. In the meantime, stay off the streets. Most of these vamps didn’t rise yesterday.”

As soon as Willow hung up, Buffy texted Cordelia, “Vamp attack! All hands on deck. Call Willow.” Maybe she’d be more willing to read a message than to commit to having a conversation.

“Still no luck reaching Kendra?” Giles asked.

“None,” Buffy confirmed. “God I hope she’s out killing some vampires right now!”

“It’s not like her to take off without orders,” Giles mused, “but I imagine an evening patrol is part of her regular routine. I only wish I’d thought of giving her this number. It honestly never occurred to me that we wouldn’t be back by now.”

Wallace, who hadn’t said three words since Yuma, looked up at the rearview mirror. “How literal are these ‘vampires’?” he asked soberly.

“Very, very,” said Buffy.

“And Buffy is the Slayer,” Giles explained, “a sort of... supernatural warrior in the fight against Evil.”

Wallace shook his head. “You believe all this?” he asked Joyce.

“I’ve seen it,” she informed him seriously. “My daughter fights demons. He’s her handler,” she added, meaning Giles.

“‘Watcher’ is the term,” he corrected, ignoring the contemptuous noise that Wallace made in his throat to demand recognition of the fact that his method of ‘Watching’ Buffy involved some fairly literal handling, “though I expect to be sacked in pretty short order.”

“They’re not big on office romances,” Buffy clarified.

“Imagine that,” said Wallace dryly. He wasn’t giving any indication what he thought of their veracity (or their sanity) on the whole vampires and demons issue. In truth, he was reserving judgment. It had been a long time since B.F. Wallace had been undecided on a spiritual question, if that was what this was, but he was good at reserving judgment. Assuming every bit of it was true, it was hardly an explanation, let alone an excuse for what this old word shuffler was doing to his great-granddaughter. Not that there was much he could do about that.

As much as he hated to admit it, there was sure as hell something about Buffy that wasn’t normal. He knew she’d been in trouble with the police, probably more than Joyce had told him. He hadn’t tried too hard to find out what he didn’t want to know. The same went for her time at the Carsters Clinic. If she _was_ fighting a secret war, that would go a long way to explain her sudden and sustained transformation from a bright, happy fifteen-year-old to a reckless delinquent who lived like there might literally be no tomorrow. Of course, so would paranoid schizophrenia. And Wallace knew for a fact that Hank’s mother had gone to her grave convinced that Nazis inside the CIA were tapping her phone and breaking into her house at night. But schizophrenia wouldn’t explain why Buffy could pick him up and move him around like a toy in a doll house. It wouldn’t explain why Joyce believed in her war with the demons, or how she had gotten involved with whatever very real clandestine organization her husband was obviously a part of.

Wallace felt he had to operate on the assumption that a real, physical struggle was taking place, regardless of the exact nature and origin of the enemy. As far as the goals and values, the rights and wrongs, the lights and shadows of the thing, he continued to reserve judgment.

****

Jemma rattled the knob on the ladies’ room door again. She had to pee really, really bad, and she _knew_ there was more than one stall in there. There were _three_ stalls damn it! There was no need to lock the door. She banged on it a few times. No answer. She was just about desperate enough to use the men’s room, but it was surely more than one stall too.

Jemma put her ear to the door. She heard moaning. ‘Get a room!’ she felt like screaming, ‘some of us have to pee.’ Was it two blocks or three to the gas station On Oak Street?

Suddenly, the door swung open. What she saw made her heart stop with terror. Before she could scream the door slammed again, with Jemma inside.

****

“What’s this about?” Chris asked skeptically. He knew Warren from Science Club. They’d always gotten along well enough. They respected each other’s ideas, but they didn’t exactly hang. Yet here he was, standing on his doorstep, ten o’clock at night, at the end of a long, trying, terrible day.

“It’s a new project I’m working on,” Warren explained with quiet enthusiasm. “I could really use someone with your... uh...skill set.”Chris was tense, wondering how much Warren knew about his ‘skill set.’ “Just come out here,” Warren persisted. “Let me show you.”

“Show me what, exactly,” Chris repeated.

“The future,” said Warren, grinning. Despite this childishly cryptic pronouncement, Chris followed Warren out into the night. He had the distinct feeling that he was being tricked in some way, but he also wanted to know what Warren was up to. He had a healthy scientific curiosity, and an ego that could be flattered like anyone’s by being asked for help.... And a huge empty hole in his life since he’d reburied his brother and distanced himself from Eric. They walked around to the side of the house, to the ally. Warren had a car parked there; fairly new, very nice. It must have belonged to his parents. “Look!” he said excitedly, opening the trunk.

Chris looked, but he didn’t quite believe his eyes. A woman, curled in on herself, long brown hair giving way to the curve of her back, naked, bruised, deathly pale. “One of your robots?” he asked, hopefully, but he could see each individual vertebrae revealing its shape beneath the sleek, flexible cover of flawlessly human skin. He knew Warren wasn’t capable of anything that sophisticated. He was beginning to absorb what Warren _was_ capable of. There was a tiny space at the center of his horror for regret at what he had done to Eric.

“You might say she’s a creation of mine,” Warren smirked.

“You might,” said Chris, noncommittally. Warren’s legs were longer than his, and he would have to run past him to get back inside the house and call 9-1-1. How do you outsmart someone who’s as smart as you when you’re too nervous to think and he isn’t? Stall, Chris decided. Play along. “Do you want me to... wake her up for you?” he asked.

Warren laughed. “Starting to believe your own rep?” he jeered.

“What then?” Chris asked, forcing himself to look Warren in the face. Chris’s heart galloped wildly. A scream stuck in his throat. The face he saw was not Warren’s.

The creature grabbed him, hoisting him off his feet and into the trunk. Slamming it shut, he snarled gleefully, “We want you to join our little trio.”

****

Kendra owned remarkably little. Or at least, she traveled light. Willow tried to remember seeing her with a bag of any kind yesterday. She hadn’t. She searched Sheila’s room. The bed was neatly made. There were no dirty clothes, not even underwear, not in the bedroom or the bathroom or the hamper. Willow scrunched up her face at the unpleasant thought of anyone, let alone someone as active as a Slayer, going through life day after day in the same dirty pair of underwear. Realistically, she knew that couldn’t be the case. The results would have been, well, noticeable. She must be washing them out at night, or whenever it was that she slept. Still, how could a girl sleep somewhere over night and not leave anything behind? A boot lace, a bobby pin, a ponytail holder, something?

Suddenly Willow had an idea. She peeled back the covers on Sheila’s bed and carefully examined the pillow case until she found two coarse, vary dark brown hairs. Technically, the spell only called for the target’s property, not a sample of her person, but she had to think that it would work at least as well. The more personal the object was, the better, after all.

Using her mother’s tweezers and a tiny paper cup from the dispenser by the sink, Willow collected the hairs. She went downstairs to the kitchen and started a large, triple wicked candle burning in a glass holder. She asked a blessing over the circular kitchen table to make it a sacred space. Getting ready for a long session like the one that had located Angel, she tweezed the hairs into a metal spoon, setting it down with its bowl in the center of the candle flames. She opened her spell book and mumbled her way once through the incantation, warming up.

Suddenly, Willow felt a strange sensation of motion. She was not traveling through space exactly. More like around it. She was not in her kitchen any more.

****

The Hunter was deep in his trance. The smoke from the fire (the wood, the incense) smelled the same as it ever had. Five thousand years melted into a single, lingering, limitless moment. The questions were the same. They were always the same. Where is the antelope, the wild deer, the thing I want to kill, the thing that will nourish me and keep me warm? Where is the lion, the wolf, the thing that wants to kill me, to take my deer, to starve me? Over the course of the long, slow hours, the answers would usually settle in his mind, quietly, subtly.

Cranston fell to the floor, screaming with rage as he was suddenly, forcibly filled with knowledge. The deer lay dead in the field. The wolf licked his wounds in his den. The jackal lolled in the Hunter’s house, eating his fill, laughing.

Thankfully, the storeroom was soundproofed. Cranston stood, pulling himself together, making his plans. The situation could not be tolerated. He’d never minded a little hunting in and around his club. It was built in part to attract prey, a beacon, like a bug-light. It was a sort of a community service. But wholesale slaughter on the premises was contrary to his purpose. Once in a great while he had to turn a blind eye for a power player like the Master, but not for the likes of the two-bit scavengers that were currently occupying his ladies’ room like a third world country.

Setting his face in an expression of calm authority, Cranston strode out into the club proper. “The ladies’ room is out of order,” he said to a human female behind the bar “hang the sign and put the padlock on it. Don’t open the door.” Returning to the storeroom, Cranston carefully cast certain things into the fire place. Humming, chanting, singing; he summoned a barrier much stronger than a padlock. There was a nice, big frosted glass window in the ladies’ room. He could have the humans sweep it out in the morning.

****

Kendra was chained to the wall, her eyes open but unfocused, breathing softly. It was a scene drawn from the Spanish inquisition, the I.V. rack next to her a surrealist touch. Willow stared at her, arrested, unable to look away. She sensed rather than saw the cavernous space at her back. The light was dim and flickering. The space echoed with the quiet, persistent sound of motion, of multiple beings going about their own dark business. Willow forced herself to turn and look, dreading what she would see. She was in a cave that was also a church. The Church, she realized. It was distinctive, easily recognizable from Buffy and Xander’s descriptions. The Church was filled with vampires.

Willow bit her tongue to keep from screaming, but she couldn’t hold in a whimper. A demon looked up from its work. Their eyes met. Willow whimpered again, backing up a step, towards Kendra. They were all looking at her now. “So...” she said, desperately, hopelessly striving for a light conversational tone, “I bet you’re all wondering what I’m doing here?”

“The Witch!” cried a scrawny, panicky creature of darkness, still wearing the coat and tie of the fifteen-year-old boy he had been Friday night. “We’re under attack!” With that, it began to run for the nearest exit.

“That’s right!” Willow shouted, blustering to cover her terror, “the Slayer is on her way here right now! And guys with crossbows! And... and flamethrowers!! So you’d better run if you know what’s—”

Suddenly, a large, hardened vampire grabbed the fleeing novice by the collar and swung him through the air, throwing him at Willow. No time to dodged, she was knocked back against Kendra, landing in a heap at her feet, along with the vampire. The Slayer murmured incoherently, momentarily disturbed from her not-quite-sleep. “No one’s going anywhere!” the older vampire shouted. “You two,” he said, nodding to a couple of vamps who were staring with their mouths hanging open, “chain her up next to the other one. Gag her tight. Witches fight with their mouths. And you,” he ordered the would be absconder, “go get Spike.”

“Already here,” Spike said, walking into the midst of them, approaching Willow, who was being clapped in irons by two of his minions. “Don’t bother with that,” he told a third subordinate, who was trying to force her mouth open and literally put a sock in it. “She’s no witch, just a little girl playing with big sister’s broomstick.”

“I am so a witch,” Willow bluffed fiercely, “A very powerful witch! And soon you will all feel my power! It’s... a... really big... power. S-so s-stand b-b-b—”

Spike slapped her hard across the face, grinning. Willow moaned miserably. “Any time you’re ready,” he said contemptuously.

“Vailé!” Willow shouted. It was the only thing she could think of, the only spell she had ready. Every vampire but Spike gasped in horror.

“What?” Spike shouted defensively, resenting the feeling that everyone else knew what was happening. Presumably he heard his own voice echoing through the shocked silent chamber. But to everyone else, including Willow, the voice matched the face they now saw. He sounded like Sheila Rosenberg.

Forcing herself to focus, not to give in to her own sickening sense of disorientation, Willow seized her moment. “Duplicate!” she shouted. She didn’t know the Latin, but she thought as hard of the glamour as she could when she said it. It worked. She repeated it loudly and with increasing authority and vehemence. “Duplicate! Duplicate! Duplicate!...”

All throughout the ruined chamber, vampires popped out of view, replaced by a dozen panicked, screaming Sheila Rosenbergs. The remaining demons fled from them in terror. They fled from one another as the Prime Sheila shouted out in futile exasperation. “Come back you morons! It’s a damn parlor trick!”

Desperately, Spike began grabbing his own minions by the collars of their classic, conservative pants suits and banging their heads against the wall to knock them unconscious. One or two of the smarter Doctors Rosenberg, followed his lead. The result was mainly to increase panic. Brawling surpassed fleeing as the primary mode of expression. Vampires and Psycho-therapists were staking and biting one another. They drew swords from their sensibly stylish leather handbags to lop each other’s heads off.

There were screaming, dying, dusting Sheila’s everywhere. Willow squeezed her eyes shut, screaming herself, singed by the horror of what she had already seen. She felt a spark of something more desperate, more primal even than fear, a hunger that doesn’t know what it is to be fed, a need with no name for what is needed. Then she fell hard into darkness.

The witch’s skull bounced off the wall and her head lolled forward against her chest. “Everybody stop!” Spike shouted, his voice of authority regained. To his intense relief, they obeyed. The survivors obeyed anyway. The floor and surfaces, including the scummy surface of the blood pool, were thick with ash and dust. He counted five vampires lying unconscious; six more, himself and Edwards included, on their feet, almost as able bodied as before. Two of those were recent amputees, apparently drawn from their chamber by the ruckus. Edwards confirmed that Angel and Zanya were safe in the cloakroom. Thirteen. And at that exact moment, only four with their feet under them and two good hands to fight with. They had no more assets than when they had trudged, trembling, into this place seven days earlier, and their liabilities were far greater.

There comes a point when an army is so disintegrated, so far below fighting capacity, that the only feasible course of action is to desert. Spike was beginning to feel that he would be a damned fool to do anything else, even if he was the commander-in-chief. But to his great surprise, proudly standing over the body of a comrade she had bravely brained senseless, was Harmony Kendall. ‘To keep your head when all about you are losing theirs,’ was certainly something he never would have pegged her for. He’d be blessed to an eternity in heaven, in the beatific presence of God himself, before he would let that girl see anything that could make her think that she was braver than he. “Barricade the doors,” he said with quiet authority. “Block every tunnel with rubble. We’ll defend these three rooms. Nurse,” he said, to the one other female who was still on her feet, “sew the witch’s mouth shut.”

****

“Keep the doors locked,” Buffy instructed her mother firmly. “Don’t let anyone in until I get back. Same goes for Grampa Wallace. He may not live here, but he thinks he has authority over us. That might be enough for an invitation.”

“He’s still too tired to drive,” Joyce pointed out worriedly, meaning Giles.

“Gee,” said Buffy dryly, “I wish someone had thought of the fact that it might be useful for me to have a license.”

“You just won the war,” Joyce said tiredly, “I’m not ready for a historical reenactment.”

“It was a tie,” Buffy reminded her.

“That’s what they said about Vietnam,” her mother pointed out, gently sardonic.

“We’ll be careful,” Buffy assured her. “If adrenaline doesn’t keep him alert I’ll... slap him or something.”

Joyce smiled, “Whatever it takes,” she teased. “Buffy,” she added, sobering again, “whatever you do, don’t die.”Buffy hugged her mother fiercely, one last time, then turned and raced back to the car, not making any promises.

Joyce turned and closed the door. Quietly, she joined her grandfather where he sat on the couch, his face in his hands. For a while, neither of them spoke.“It gets harder,” said the old man finally. “Every generation, it gets harder. You might think it would be the opposite, that you’d get some distance, some perspective.” He shook his head, still not looking up. “These... kids, you see them grow up—or worse—and it’s like time... stretches out in front of you as it’s crumbling behind you. The world, the real world, the world you grew up in disappears and you see these kids, these... pieces of your soul going out into this hostile, alien world... God so _innocent_ and you remember what it’s like, to be that kid, to be that age... and you think, how can they possibly make it? How did we make it all those years ago?”

Joyce patted his shoulder, not knowing what to say. Five days in, she wasn’t dealing much better with Buffy’s war. Or her marriage. It didn’t help that they were both happening at the same time. It really didn’t help that the circumstances of both were so unusual. Not that she would have been thrilled beyond all measure if her daughter were married to another teenager, or off peace keeping in Kosovo. But at least then she could talk about it. People could relate. She wouldn’t feel quite so alone. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said out loud to her grandfather. “I don’t think I can do this on my own.”

The old man sighed and patted her hand. “Yeah, you can, Kiddo. You’re a tough cookie, always were. But as long as I’m here, I’ll do what I can to help.”

****

“I _know_ , I locked this door,” said Giles, in the tone of someone who believes his own knowledge to be wrong. Buffy wasn’t so sure. Call it a sixth sense. Okay, in her case, since it didn’t have anything to do with vampires, probably a seventh. Something in their apartment was not right. She put her finger to her lips then motioned for him to stay behind her, which he did despite a rather indignant expression. She nodded towards the light switch. When he flipped it on, she was primed, ready to strike at whatever evil thing she met.

The woman on the couch stood and turned to face them as confidently as if they were walking into _her_ house. She looked and _felt_ human, though not in a warm, fuzzy sort of way. She was about the same age as Buffy’s mother. Conservatively dressed. Moderately attractive. She had probably once been very attractive, and might be again if she traded her cold facsimile of a smile for the genuine article.

Giles looked every bit as shocked and horrified as if he’d just stumbled and fallen into a mass grave. Buffy remained alert. Slipping her left hand into her jacket pocket and taking off her rings, hoping they hadn’t been noticed, she wondered if there was something about the intruder she was missing. Maybe she was a witch or half demon or something. Maybe she was from Immigration or the School Board or Children’s Services. The stranger extended a hand, turning up the wattage on her fake smile only slightly. “You must be Buffy,” she said politely but not warmly.

“Yes, I must,” Buffy confirmed resignedly, crossing her arms. English. Formal. Stuffy.... Council.

“Oh... erm...” Giles seemed suddenly to remember himself, smiling sheepishly, “Buffy Summers, Gwendolyn Font.”

“Gwendolyn Post,” she corrected him severely. “ _Mrs_.” Buffy regarded her skeptically. The way she hurled her marital status at Giles, it was like she expected him to be threatened or chastened by it. She clearly thought quite a lot of herself, and not very much of him. Buffy guessed he really did have a bad reputation back home. Taking pity on her husband, who was obviously finding the tension in the room very trying, Buffy shook the woman’s hand. After all, she wasn’t really in a position to say, ‘What the hell are you doing in my house?’

Giles was. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, his polite smile radiating no pleasure whatsoever.

For a moment, only for a moment, Buffy thought she saw Gwendolyn’s real smile. It was chilling. “Official Business, I’m afraid,” she said crisply.

“You’re here on behalf of the Council,” Giles concluded.

“Not officially,” Mrs. Post answered, seeming to enjoy the contradiction.

“I don’t understand,” said Giles flatly, though he thought he probably did. He was not enjoying this game. This was... unsportsmanlike, even for his father.

“I’m here—in town at any rate—on school business,” Gwendolyn clarified. “I’m the new English teacher at Sunnydale High School.”

“Oh?” said Giles, in a way that sounded polite but which Buffy recognized as subtly hostile. She had the feeling Mrs. Post picked up the signal too. She had the feeling Mrs. Post had a lot of _insight_ where her husband was concerned.

Buffy warned herself not to start getting paranoid. She didn’t want to be the kind of jealous young wife who always assumes everyone her husband knows is an ex-lover. “As fascinating as that is,” she said aloud, “and lord knows I’m looking forward to some great literary discussions, we do have some kind of urgent life and death type things going on right now. Vampires attacking. Slayers going AWOL. Maybe we can talk about our school business at school.” She gave Mrs. Post her best, please-go-away-now smile.

“Alright,” said Mrs. Post, cooler and crisper than ever, “I’ll see you _both_ in the morning. “Your key, Mr. Giles,” she added, handing it to him, smiling viciously, “you _might_ want to be more careful where you hide it.”

“Well that was... an unexpected treat,” Giles said when she had gone.

“Nice lady,” Buffy agreed, matching his sarcasm. “Can I kill ‘er?” she added with mock cheerful enthusiasm.

Giles smiled sympathetically. “I think the Council might frown on that,” he said, giving Buffy a small, reassuring kiss. “At any rate, as you point out, we do have somewhat... erm less ambiguous evil to deal with. I’ll go and gather some supplies. You try calling everyone again. If you don’t get them this time, call Zabuto. See how recently Kendra’s checked in with him.”

Cordelia’s phone went straight to voicemail, again. The machine picked up at Willows. Xander’s mom didn’t answer this time, probably tired of repeating that she didn’t know where he was. Sam Zabuto answered. He was very concerned that no one had seen or heard from his Slayer since sunrise. “She should have consulted Mr. Giles before going into the field,” he said, covering his concern with exasperation and blame in a very parental way. “It is procedure.”

“Well,” Buffy reminded him, “this is Sunnydale. Sometimes the field comes to you.”

“Indeed,” said Zabuto gravely, not seeming to find this bit of perspective all that reassuring.

“I’ve got to go,” Buffy said, “Demons. But if you hear from Kendra...”

“I shall instruct her to make contact with your Mr. Giles at once,” Zabuto assured her.

“She can get us at this number,” Buffy said.

“Your Watcher is going into the field with you?” Zabuto asked worriedly.

“Like I said...” Buffy told him.

“Indeed,” he acknowledged grimly again.

Giles came downstairs with a large canvas duffel of weapons and supplies, carrying his crossbow. “No luck?” he asked.

“None,” Buffy confirmed. She put her phone into her pocket and her rings back on her finger. She felt better fighting with them on. They began their search of the town at the Overlook, but had to beat a swift retreat when they saw blue lights blocking the way in. Buffy tried not to imagine all of the possible implications of this. For now, they had to consider Xander and Cordelia out of action.

Willow’s house was unlocked but empty. Unless you counted Amy. Or Sheila Rosenberg. Flickering reddish light danced with the shadows in the kitchen. Giles flipped on the electric lights. A huge triple wicked candle burned in the center of the table with the end of a spoon sticking out. It had obviously been burning for hours; the bowl of the spoon was filled with wax. Amy’s spell book lay on the table, open to a common location spell with which Giles was passively familiar. “If she found her,” he wondered aloud, as much to himself as to Buffy, “why wouldn’t she call us?”

“Because there wasn’t time,” said Buffy grimly, “we were too far away to help.”

“The Hellmouth?” he said wonderingly.

“The Hellmouth,” Buffy confirmed. “I just hope we’re not too late.”

****

“Look,” Spike argued, intense but quiet, “it’s no good trying to save the best for last. It’s obviously the Slayer that brought the witch here and the other one can probably track her just as well. The sooner they’re both dead, the safer we’ll be. We’re just going to have to settle for some very powerful blood and other blood that’s fresh, hope it’s enough.”

“We’re missing an opportunity,” Edwards insisted stubbornly.

“An opportunity of getting killed,” Spike countered hotly.

“He’s right,” Zanya said firmly, effectively shutting her sire’s mouth. “We should bleed them now.”

Spike successfully resisted the urge to point out that the crippled female was merely present, not a Minister of the Privy Council as it were. “Smart lady,” he said instead. “You should listen to her more.”

“We don’t know that we’ll be able to get a fresh virgin of any kind when the time comes,” Edwards objected. “We don’t know that one or two fresh will be enough.”

“We don’t know that the dark powers of whatever the hell will find the blood ‘pure’ when it’s soaking up a barrel of demon dust either,” Spike pointed out. “We can only do what we can do. And of course,” he added leeringly, “we don’t actually know from personal experience that they are virgins yet. I mean, dog boy might have gotten inspired since Angel was last informed. And well, every Slayer has a Watcher. Young girl like that, isolated, dependent; it’s not a very original sin. I think we’d better have a look.”

“I’ll let you handle that,” said Edwards disdainfully.

“Don’t be such a prude,” said Spike resenting being regarded as juvenile or some such. What was an unlife for if a bloke couldn’t enjoy a little lighthearted sexual violence? Edwards gave him an excessively dignified look and turned his attention back to his books. Spike snorted contemptuously, shaking his head. “Nurse,” he called, swaggering out into the sanctuary, “bring us a flashlight. It’s time to play doctor again.”The witch lifted her head. Her face was streaked with tears. Just a little blood seeped from the stitches in her lips. She looked... perplexed. Spike chuckled. “Thank heaven for little girls,” he murmured. Nothing suffers like innocence.

Spike rubbed his hands together with exaggerated glee, putting on a show now. He decided to start with the Slayer. She hardly counted, the state she was in, but it was really all for the witch’s edification anyway, for the joy of seeing her learn what the rest of her short life might entail. Innocent though she was, she had it coming. She had slaughtered his troops and gummed up his sacrificial pool. They barely had a chance of completing the ritual now, let alone moving against the Slayer, the _real_ Slayer, by any conventional means. He meant to make her as sorry as she could possibly be for coming here, to ring every last drop of remorse out of her.

When he tore the second class Slayer’s clothes from her body, the witch squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away. He enjoyed that reaction, but they had to get past it to have any real fun. Willow whimpered when she felt Spike’s cold hands cupping her chin, gently lifting her face to his. He sniffed her hair, breathing in the scent of her with exaggerated delight. He nipped her earlobe, drawing just a little blood, which he licked and slurped lasciviously.

“You taste like your father,” he whispered, directly into her ear. “It’s alright if you want to keep your eyes closed. I’ll describe everything to you, like a radio play. It’ll be fun, it’ll be sexy.”The coolness of his tongue and the icy breeze of his words being blown directly into her ear were disturbing. But nothing was quite as creepy as the pauses between the words when he didn’t breathe at all. Up close, he stank of death. How could anyone think that making out with a vampire was sexy? If she’d had any clue what it was like to be touched by a dead man's hands, she wouldn’t have pressed Buffy so much for details.

Finally, Willow heard and felt Spike back off from her a few inches... towards Kendra, she realized, relief giving way to horror and disgust. She knew he wouldn’t be shy about the details. “Our task for today, or I should say our _first_ task for today,” Spike lectured cheerfully, “is to discover whether young Kendra, beautiful Nubian Vampire Slayer, is the fit and proper object of a virgin sacrifice. If so... well... Rosenberg is a Jewish name, so maybe you know something about kosher butchering?”

Willow couldn’t keep from whimpering, though she was unable to speak. Ever single word Spike said seemed to be calculated to make her skin crawl. “The procedure is fairly simple,” he went on, “Nurse, if you would please hold the light right there...aaaand...” Suddenly, he switched from his bright, teachery voice to a satiny bedroom purr. “I’m putting my right hand behind her left knee and lifting up her leg, holding it out of the way so I can get a good view. I have to bend it at a bad angle, because of the chains. It’s damaging to her. If she wasn’t in such a stupor, she’d be in a lot of pain. It’s a pity she can’t feel it. It kind of makes my dick twitch, hurting a girl when she’s so exposed and vulnerable like this. Women in pain are so sexy!”

Willow whined helplessly. “You want me to stop talking?” Spike asked in a gentler, cleaner voice. Willow nodded vigorously. “Simple,” he assured her. “Just open your eyes and watch.” She shook her head vehemently. “Suit yourself,” he said smugly. Switching back to his sexual predator voice, he continued. “I’m moving my left hand up her inner thigh on the right side. Her skin is so smooth and warm. I haven’t touched her yet, where it counts, but I’m about too. She’ll never know it, but you and I will.” He inhaled deeply. “Ah,” he said with obscene satisfaction. “I can smell her warm cunt and your cold sweat. It’s a tasty combination. Maybe you want a lick? The kiddies say you might be in to that sort of thing. Now there’s something I’d like to see. I’m getting a real hard-on thinking about that.” Willow whimpered wordlessly again, but this time she was glad her mouth was sewn shut.

“I don’t know that I can adequately describe exactly how my hard cock feels,” Spike went on, his voice more casual, contemplative. “I might have to use a more tactile method of demonstration." He grabbed Willows hand, pulling hard on her arm, extending it as far as he could from the wall until there was no slack in the chain or in the arm itself. If he pulled any harder it would break. He forced her fist open, laying her palm against the crotch of his pants so the she could feel his erect penis inside. Willow made the noises that you make when you try to scream with your mouth sewn shut. She opened her eyes. Spike smiled, letting go of her hand. “Watch,” he said earnestly, “don’t look away.”

****

Boston, MA, March 11, 1998, 4:00 am EST

It was cold. The temperature had dropped forty degrees overnight reneging on the promise of an early spring, plunging the world back into winter. The ground was hard. Faith tried to get up, but Abel grabbed her by the head, twisting his fingers in her long dark hair, and pushed her back down to her knees. There was trash piled up in the ally blocking the view from the street, not that too many people were going to walk by at this hour. He pressed the muzzle of his thirty-eight to her temple again.“Oh come on Big-A,” she argued. “It’s Ronnie’s debt. I’m not even with Ronnie anymore.”

Still holding her by the hair, Abel busted Faith in the mouth with his gun. Not too hard. Her lip was bleeding, but no teeth were broken. “You make a promise, you keep it. You don’t just get to change your mind when there’s nothing in it for you anymore. Somehow people seem to forget that. I think maybe you could be an example, help people remember.”

“Look, A-Man,” Faith cajoled, “I’ll get you the money, or I’ll work it off, whatever, just not here, alright? It’s cold out here. Let’s just go back to your place.”

“I don’t want a body at my place,” said Abel matter-of-factly. “My kids live there.”

“Woe, just hold on there, Tiger,” Faith tried to reason with him. “Let’s think about this for a minute. I can’t make you any money if I’m dead. I can’t suck your cock dead either. It’s kind of a loose/loose thing.”

“That’s why I told you to suck it first,” he pointed out logically. “When he sees what can happen, Ronnie’ll find the money. Come on, hurry up, your making me late. My bitch has to be at work by five. I gotta babysit.”The _attitude_ on this guy! Like he was asking her to move her fucking car or something. Like it was no big deal. Faith was starting to be more mad than scared. She tried to ignore both feelings. It was her experience that a lot of heavy emotion didn’t do much good in these kinds of situations.

“Look,” she said, changing tactics, “let’s just go back to my place. Fuck me, shoot me, whatever, just not here, alright? It’s a fucking ally, Man. It’s brutal, its classic. Who wants to die in a fucking ally?”

“Exactly!” he said. “See, it’s perfect.”

Faith decided it was time to start crying. She wasn’t faking it, just controlling how much she let it out. Abel cracked her in the side of the head this time, a little harder, a little higher up, between her jaw and her temple. She stopped crying.“Hurry up,” Abel repeated. Concentrating on keeping her hands from shaking, she quickly unfastened his belt and his fly, not wanting him to lose patience with her again. She jerked his pants and underwear down. The damn thing was so stiff it popped up and almost smacked her in the busted lip. It was cartoonish, ridiculous, but she didn’t feel like laughing.

Clearly she wasn’t getting out of the whole blow job deal. She slurped the entire disgusting thing into her mouth ‘til the head poked against the back of her throat, expertly working through the routine task, ignoring the feeling that she wanted to vomit. The real issue was finding a way to end up alive afterward. He could have been bluffing, but he wasn’t known to be much of a bluffer. She had to find a way to take control of the situation, steer the course of events in a different direction. Which is pretty fucking hard to do when you’re on your knees in an ally with a gun to your head and a cock in your mouth. Faith wondered if she could bite his dick off before he could blow her brains out. Probably not, she had to admit, and anyways her brains would still get blown out.

“Damn, Bitch,” Abel whined. “Not so fucking hard, that hurts.” That was just about the ever lovin’ limit. Faith’s temper was getting the better of her. She could feel rage surging and swelling inside of her. Something stronger than rage even. New. Powerful. Like the Wrath of God. In the midst of this emotional tempest was a calm center of serenity, of truth. She didn’t care if he blew her head off. It literally didn’t matter. Faith was more than herself. She was a force of nature. Eternal. Limitless. A phoenix rising.

Abel fell to the ground screaming, screeching like a wounded bird of prey. Blood and spittle dribbled down Faith’s chin as she spat his severed penis in his face. She herself screamed, long and wordlessly, an undifferentiated anthem of anger, fear and pain. At the same time, she stomped on the wrist of his right hand, his gun hand. She felt the bones crunch and the flesh squelch wetly. He wasn’t able to fire a shot. Faith ground her heal a little harder and felt Abel’s hand come off. She didn’t have to scream again. She was still screaming. His other hand clutched at the cuff of her pants. “Please! Please!” he shouted, sobbing, “Please don’t kill me!” She kicked his hand away and kept kicking. The first blow that connected with his head left him limp and motionless, but she continued kicking and stomping him until he was less a man than a puddle with a few wet clothes in it. Juice and pulp, like an orange.

By the time she finished kicking, she was finished screaming. Lights were going on for blocks around. She could hear distant sirens coming closer. As her breathing and heart rate slowed to within 150% of normal, she gazed in disbelief at what appeared to be the work of something not human. She felt disgust, but not remorse. The final reckoning of the life of Abel Brower seemed... fitting, proportionate. He got what he deserved. Faith glanced at the chrome plated handgun shining silverly in the moonlight. She laughed. She didn’t take it. She didn’t need it. She was a force of nature, a phoenix risen, filled with the Wrath of God, filled with Truth. She couldn’t wait to go forth into the world and share the Good News.

****

“It’s alright if you close your eyes now,” Spike smirked. But Willows eyes felt permanently opened, blown wide. She might never close them again. Transfixed, she watched the last drops of blood dripping from Kendra’s lifeless body, making a steady succession of small ripples in the dark pool below. There was something strangely comforting about the repetition, the predictable variation of those tiny ripples. She felt sick, sad, sorry, but not afraid. Fear is for people with hope.“You won’t have to see what I’m going to do now,” Spike went on lasciviously. “I won’t have to tell you what I’m doing.” He traded is lying human face for his forthrightly demonic one. “You’ll be able to feel every bit of it.” Willow felt a sort of dismal, muted dread after all. Silently, she prayed to her neglected God that Spike would kill her without touching her too much in a sexual way. She prayed that he would let her stay dead.

“Nurse,” he said, “bring us that flashlight again.” Dutifully, looking clinically detached and professional, she shined the light as directed. Feeling nausea and disgust, Willow opened her legs as wide as she could, chained as she was in a standing position. She didn’t want Spike to touch her one tiny bit more than he had to. She wished she could have just _told_ him she was going to fail his test. He probably wouldn’t have taken her word for it anyway. He was having too much fun. Unlike his ‘nurse’ Dr. Spike was not clinical or professional. He walked his fingers like tiny feet up the inside of her thigh merrily, creepily singing, “♫The itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout...♪” Willow squeezed her eyes shut, screaming her muffled screams. She had been wrong. She didn’t need hope to feel fear.

Spike actually seemed to be putting off finding out what he was supposedly so eager to known, savoring the anticipation. He was _petting_ her now, stroking her pubic hair like it was an animal. He hadn’t done that to Kendra, probably because she couldn’t feel it. He murmured his appreciation for ‘an honest genuine redhead’ rambling on about the supposed passion and sexual energy of such fiery women. He rambled and kept rambling.  Somewhere in there their was a joke about Moses.  Willow tried not to listen, tried to think about anything else, tried to keep from reacting. She hoped he would get bored and just get on with his examination.

Sure enough, she soon felt Spike’s cold, dead hands, roughly, resentfully pulling the folds of her labia apart, holding them back to look inside her vagina as he has done to Kendra a little while ago. “Hum,” he said skeptically. The tips of several cold fingers wriggled just a little way inside her, forcing her vaginal opening painfully wide, “Well, well, well Congratulations!” said Spike enthusiastically, running one clammy digit along the torn edge of her hymen. “And as recently as all that!” He pushed two finger deep inside of her poking around painfully for no good reason, then drew them out and licked them, loudly enough for her to hear. “I feel like I ought to kiss the bride,” he smirked.

“Pucker up!” said Buffy fiercely. Willow opened her eyes to see Spike being kicked across the room via two feet directly to the mouth. His ‘nurse’ was crumbling to dust, a cross bow bolt in her chest. Registering the probable source of that missile, Willow covered herself as best she could with her chained hands, suddenly embarrassed, suddenly aware of the difference between humiliation and embarrassment.

A damn broke in Willow’s heart. She began to weep with grief and shame, sobbing until she began to choke, hardly able to breathe with her nose running and her mouth sewn shut. She had to blow her nose on nothing and let the snot run down her face onto her bare breasts just to keep from drowning where she stood. More indignity piled on top of embarrassment on top of humiliation on top of shame.

Vampires were running everywhere. Giles got another one with his crossbow from wherever he was hiding. Meanwhile, Buffy and Spike were struggling grimly; punching, choking, grappling, clawing. Just when Buffy seemed to be getting the better of him, kneeling on top of him stake in hand, an athletic female with long blond hair sprang out of nowhere and tackled her, pulling her off of Spike. ‘Please do not adjust your set,’ thought Willow dizzily. Buffy was fighting for her life against the (im)mortal remains of Harmony Kendall! Buffy had the undead cheer captain on the ground in seconds, banging her skull against the stone floor, knocking her unconscious. In another instant she would have been dust, but _Spike_ of all creatures, with uncharacteristic chivalry, came to her rescue. Their struggle resumed as fiercely as ever.

For a fraction of a second, Willow thought she saw Giles running towards her, chasing an injured vampire with a book, of all things, in his hand. But it was another tall, tan-suited figure in glasses, much younger or more likely much older. “It’s too late!” he shouted, desperate, frustrated, “it’s too soon! We have to get out of here!” But the other one (a black female with her face half melted off) scrambled just beyond his reach, half carrying, half dragging a bundle of blankets with a charred, claw-like arm hanging out. He chased her to the edge of the sacrificial pool, catching her by the ankle at last as she dove in with her burden. She held the struggling bundle under the surface of the blood. Smoke rose from the pool, amidst a high-pitched animal screaming. 

Willow had the crazy feeling she was watching a mother drown her infant while her husband tried desperately to stop her. She felt a surreal stab of regret as Giles shot his not-quite-doppelganger in the shoulder with the crossbow, forcing him to let go, allowing the ‘mother’ and ‘child’ to slip beneath the surface. More smoke, more screaming. Dodging another crossbow bolt the ‘father’ vampire leapt up onto the rim of the pool. He stared into it a moment, horror etched across his face murmuring just at the edge of hearing as if saying his goodbyes. Then, incredibly, he dove in, joining the others in their screaming, smoking fate.

The crowd had thinned enough now for Giles to come out of hiding. In addition to the crossbow’s shoulder mounted quiver, he was wearing a sword in a scabbard and a cartridge belt filled with tiny bottles of holy water, absurdly, all on top of his usual tweed suit. Suddenly, a bullet whizzed by Willow’s nose, fired from the doorway of an adjoining room. “Get down,” Giles shouted automatically, crouching behind a column. Willow gave him a look, which he acknowledged with an apologetic facial shrug. He was probably the intended target anyway. Him or Buffy, who had come within an ace of staking Spike again until the sound of gunfire had distracted her.

Suddenly, Giles was tackled from behind by Harmony, apparently fully recovered. “Muh! Muh!” Willow shouted trying to let Buffy know. She didn’t need to.

“I’ve got your librarian!” Harmony announced triumphantly, holding up his unconscious body.

“What...Uhn... do you... Ahhg... want _me_ to do?” Buffy asked, still struggling with Spike.

“Let my Spiky go!” Harmony shouted.

“I’m... humph... I’m not really... in a position...” Buffy grunted, trying to force open a little space between Spike’s hands and her throat.

“Just kill ‘im, you twit,” Spike growled. “I can handle her.”

Desperately, Buffy rammed her skull into Spike’s face. He must not have been expecting it. His head bounced hard against the cavern floor. He stopped struggling. “Willow and Giles for you and Spike,” Buffy offered, “And Mr. Gun-Happy, if he puts it down and comes out in the next ten seconds.”

“Fuck you!” the gunman shouted, expending a round for emphasis against the column that shielded Giles and Harmony. Willow whimpered. From every vantage point, she was the easiest target in the room.

“Then you’ll have to kill him,” Buffy instructed Harmony. “The _gunman_!” she clarified in response to the airhead’s shocked expression.

“You do it!” said Harmony, crouching down lower behind the column.

“Bullets can’t kill you, Harmony,” Buffy pointed out. “You’re a _vampire_.”

“Oh yeah, duh,” said Harmony, smiling, banging her palm against her forehead. Leaving Giles behind the column, taking his sword, she stood and walked casually towards the Vestry. A large caliber bullet caught her in the throat. She stumbled to the ground.

“Can hurt like hell though,” Buffy said coolly, turning back towards Spike, meaning to stake him where he lay. Or had lain.

Suddenly, Buffy was blindsided, lifted off her feet and flung against the wall. She was only stunned for a moment, maybe fifteen seconds, but it was enough. By the time she got her feet under her and looked around, Spike was scrambling hurriedly from the Church over the partly dismantled pile of rubble where Buffy and Giles had breached his defenses, the wounded Harmony hefted on his shoulder like a hundred pound sack of flour. It was almost heroic, but it didn’t earn them any mercy. Buffy scanned her immediate surroundings for a weapon fully intending to chase after them, but the sound of renewed gunfire forced her to duck behind the altar. She could hear Giles moaning, starting to come to. “Stay down!” she warned.

Creeping along the ground, darting behind rubble and furniture, Buffy made her way back to Giles. “Buffy!” he gasped, trying to shout and whisper at the same time, “What the bloody hell is happening?”

“They’re still shooting at us,” she explained, tensely but quietly. “Just one actually, I think.” She seemed to think this cleared matters up entirely.

“What _is_ this place?” Giles persisted. Buffy gave him a worried look, but said nothing, motioning him to be quiet. She was holding his crossbow and quiver, sliding a wooden bolt in place. Slowly, in a deep crouch, she crept around the base of the column, and darted for the cover of a slab of fallen marble, giving her a better angle for return fire into the doorway from which shots were even now being aimed in their direction. Giles still felt completely disoriented. He remembered—or though he remembered—a car wreck, which would explain the pounding in his head if nothing else. But he’d thought Xander had been there, not Buffy. He hadn’t seen Buffy since—

“Bloody Hell!” Giles half gasped half shouted, ignoring both the bullet that zinged off the column, much too near his head and Buffy’s exasperated shushing. He had a perfect, solid, _tactile_ memory of making love to Buffy, in a bed, or possibly outdoors, on the ground. He couldn’t place the events in space and time, but he knew that he had had intercourse with her. It confused him; it made no sense. Such an act was utterly incompatible with his duties as a Watcher. It was indecent! She was a child! Except, his stored sensory impressions told him that she was a woman. He remembered what she felt like—what she looked, smelled, sounded and tasted like—lying beneath him, coming around him while he was coming inside of her.

Giles shook himself a little internally. As real as these impressions seemed, he was more than half convinced that they were actually the dark imaginings of an addled brain. But that wasn’t important right now he tried to convince himself. Whatever he had or hadn’t done with Buffy, however hard he had been hit in the head; he needed to focus on the immediate problem of being shot at.

Buffy had loosed several bolts through the doorway without hitting her target. She rose slightly to fire another, getting grazed on the arm by a bullet for her trouble. The vampire cried out, also wounded, but probably just as slightly. The problem was obvious. From her current vantage point, she could see into the room, could take aim at the shooter, but the angle and distance were just too challenging for the heart shot. Giles plucked a word from another dislocated memory and shouted it, “Flamethrowers!” 

Buffy was only confused for a moment. But she was more than momentarily puzzled about how to put this grand idea into action. The wooden crossbow bolts were too dense to catch fire just by being held to the flame of a candle, and there were no accelerants readily available. Incredibly, it didn’t matter. The gun slinging vampire panicked at the mere suggestion of a flame weapon. Blazing away at Buffy’s position, he rushed into the room, heading for the nearest tunnel, which was completely blocked. Giles lobbed a bottle of holy water like a grenade, hitting the creature in its only hand, causing it to drop the gun and scream in pain. Buffy stood, taking careful aim and dusted it with the crossbow. “Help Willow,” she instructed Giles. “I’ll check for survivors.”

He found Willow chained to the wall, naked, weeping, mouth sewn shut, her hands clasped desperately in front of her in a way that spoke of violation. He followed her horrified gaze up and over to another naked, mortified female body, hanging from the ceiling, drained of blood. An innocent, desecrated child who would never see her sixteenth birthday, Kendra was the picture, the very essence of hope dashed, promise unfulfilled, life unlived. Suddenly he was sickened, overwhelmed with the memory of what had happened to Jenny. Just as suddenly, he knew where he was. The events of the past two or three weeks pushed and crowded and forced their way back into his brain, more horrible in the reliving.

Giles yanked a purple velvet cloth from an object above the altar, revealing an enormous golden cross. He could have spat on it. A pox on passive, watching gods! Damn their plans! Damn their mysteries! Instead, he wrapped the cloth around Willow’s hunched shoulders.  Fishing a knife from his pocket, he carefully cut the stitches from between her lips.

“Oh God!” Willow sobbed, “Oh God! Giles! Giles, it was so horrible!” He wrapped her in his arms and let her weep against his chest, stroking her hair like a parent soothing a child. “I watched him,” Willow sobbed. “I watched him kill her; I watched him _touch_ her. He told me to watch him... or...or...or. Oh God!”she cried out in anguish. Giles could feel his blood boiling. He wanted to tear Angel’s head from his body with his bare hands, with his teeth. But then, maybe he was already dead. He still had a short gap in his memory between leaving Willow’s house and waking up on the sanctuary floor. He probably had trauma to his brain, he realized, comforting himself that the damage couldn’t be too bad if he was able to work that out.

A gentle hand on his shoulder startled him. “Looks like it’s just us chickens,” Buffy said. He looked into her eyes, two deep green pools on concern. His wife, his beautiful wife. For a moment, he’d literally forgotten. All from a bump on the head, bones and tissues being knocked together. ‘You’d be surprised how much of a person a body is.’

“I think I may need medical attention,” he said, releasing a still teary but no longer shaking or sobbing Willow to Buffy, who had found a set of rusty iron keys to try in her locks. “I know Willow does.”

“Oh no, Nu-huh!” Willow objected, shaking her head fiercely, almost panicked. “I’m not going to a hospital! I’m not telling anyone about this!”

“Willow,” Buffy started, automatically saying what she had been trained to think a person should say to a sex crime victim, “you don’t have anything to be ashamed of!”Willow laughed bitterly, rubbing her bleeding wrists as Buffy found the right key at last. She probably would have said the same thing, but it sounded so ridiculous. In the World Who-Has-The-Right-to-Say-What-Goes-In-Willow’s-Vagina Championships the score was creepy homicidal monsters one, Willow Rosenberg zero. It was sure as hell nothing to be proud about.

“What are they going to do for her?” said Giles reasonably, arguing down his own suggestion.

“Come back to Mom’s with us,” Buffy said finally, “You shouldn’t be alone. Maybe _you do_ need a doctor,” she added running a hand through Giles’ hair. “Your head’s bleeding.”

Giles shook his head. “On second thought, I think I’ll skip it,” he said. “It’s late. I’m tired. Let go home.” He laughed. “Well, to your mother’s anyway, before she has a heart attack worrying about you.”

“Uh... guys?” Willow said nervously, almost apologetically, “I’m still kinda naked?”

“Here,” Giles said, handing her is cartridge belt and his jacket. Buffy helped her wrap the velvet cloth into an almost dress, cinched with the ammo belt and made more or less decent by the jacket, which hid her bare shoulders and bralessness.

Gently shrugging off her two concerned attendants, Willow walked over to the edge of the pool, feeling compelled to see what had become of the little vampire ‘family.’ Buffy hung back, not liking to approach the place where she had died last spring. Despite the horrors she had witnesses that night, what Willow saw made her gasp. Tangled together in the pool were three adult, humanoid skeletons. She hardly knew what to think. She knew the three had been vampires. Even if the purity of the blood—focused as it was in this sacred place meant to hold holy water—had burned the beasts to death, why weren’t they dust?“Bones?” said Buffy, echoing her thoughts, finally working up the nerve to come and stand before the pool.

“I think one of them is Angel,” Willow said, putting together the bits of gossip she had heard from the vampires. “Everyone was saying he was all but dead. The ritual must have been for him.”

Looking at the bones, Buffy somehow knew that it was true. She felt a deep sense of relief that was also regret, the pain of a much needed loss. “Not Angel, just Angelus,” she said, correcting herself as much as Willow. “I need a hammer,” she added, “something heavy. I’m not taking any chances.”

“First things first,” said Giles, his gaze drawing Willow’s and Buffy’s up to Kendra’s body again. They found the pulley contraption the vampires had used to raise her to the ceiling and lowered her body gently to the floor. The best they could do for a shroud was some old blankets the vampires had been using. Wrapping Kendra in them, they laid her near the partly unblocked exit and returned their attention to the bones. Giles had packed a small rock hammer, but one of the vampires had left behind a hefty looking battle ax that Buffy judged to be more up to the job. She set Giles to keep watch at the entrance and got to work fishing the skeletons out and piling them in front of the altar. The task was harder than it looked. The bones easily came apart from one another without their connective tissues. With no better tool than an ax to dredge with, Buffy was soon covered in blood.

Willow felt like she should be doing something to help, but she honestly didn’t feel up to it. Instead, she sat down next to Giles, next to Kendra’s body and opened the vampire’s spell book, trying to distract herself. "The Healing of the Dark Moon", she read in flourished, old-fashioned script. The _Dark_ Moon? She quickly scanned the first few lines, generally describing the purpose of and requirements for the ritual. She laughed out loud, shaking her head, then buried her face in her hands and sobbed. No one asked her what was wrong. They thought they knew. She was just a traumatized, hysterical female. Willow didn’t have the energy to bother correcting them. What good would it do them to know? What could they possibly profit from the knowledge that there had been no need for anyone to get in a hurry about confronting Spike, that Kendra had jumped the gun and started these tragic events in motion because Giles had transmitted to her his own misinformation? They could have taken all the time they needed to work out a winning strategy, to arm themselves, to prepare. The ritual would not have taken place for another half a month.

Buffy piled up all the vampire bones she could find and smashed them with her ax to a wet, sticky blood and bone paste. Then she chopped the huge gilded cross loose from its base, sending it crashing down on top of the remains. She smashed several bottles of holy water over the whole thing. They caught like gasoline as they struck the unholy remains, lighting up the cross as well. Within five minutes, there was nothing left but ash.

Arms at the ready, keeping an eye out for vampires, the small band made their way up the unblocked tunnel. Buffy carried the duffel bag with all of their extra gear. Willow clutched the vampire’s spell book to her chest. Giles cradled Kendra’s lifeless body in his arms. They made their way out the way they had come in, through the mausoleum, having preferred to park nowhere near the school.

The boot of the car wasn’t quite big enough for a body. That was really something a Watcher ought to take into account when purchasing a new automobile Giles thought sardonically. The two living girls climbed in the back seat. Giles belted Kendra into the front passenger seat and got behind the wheel. ‘What a picture we make,’ he thought. ‘If we get stopped for any reason, I’ll never see daylight again.’

****

The first thing Cordelia became aware of was the stinging pain of a hundred lashes, but the deep throb of her torn throat was close behind. She groaned. Someone, who had been holding her hand all along, squeezed it reassuringly. “Xander!” she sighed, comforted.

The hand stiffened a little. “She’s waking up,” a familiar voice said.

Cordelia’s eyes flew open. “Daddy!” she gasped. Suddenly her pulse was racing again.

“Shuuuush,” he crooned, stroking her hair, “It’s alright, Baby. You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you anymore.”

“Where’s Xander?” she croaked, trying to sit up.

“Honey, Honey it’s alright!” her father tried to reassure her, “he can’t hurt you anymore.”

Oh, crap. That was the problem with letting your father think you were a ‘good girl.’ She half sat up, scanning the room for her mother, who knew better. She wasn’t there. Home in bed probably. “No, he didn’t...” she rasped. Shaking her head. She wanted to explain, but each word was more painful, more difficult than the last.

“Yes, he did, Honey,” her father argued gently. “You... hit your head, you may not remember... everything, but he admitted to... part of it,” He couldn’t look her in the eye.

“Sex?” Cordelia demanded with screechy indignantly, “Is that –?” Her throat closed up on her, but she’d said enough. Her father nodded stiffly, still not looking at her. “I let him,” she whispered, when she could talk again. “I love him.”

Daddy looked at her at last; shocked, disbelieving, disappointed, confused. “He almost killed you!” he declared.

Cordelia shook her head, “Not... him....” she struggled to explain.

“Don’t lie... don’t protect him!” he father countered angrily.

“Dad,” Cordelia croaked urgently, “Where... is... Xander?”

“In jail,” he said sternly, “where he belongs.”She shook her head; horrified, angry. “He _raped_ you!” her father insisted. “He beat you! He cut your throat! I thought you were gonna die!”

“No,” she insisted quietly, restraining her impulse to try to shout, forcing as many words out as possible. “A... man attacked us.”

“ _He_ said it was a dog!” her father challenged fiercely.

Cordelia lay back in frustration, exhaling, closing her eyes. Poor damn stupid Xander! A _dog_ broke the windshield and tore the car door off? Of course, it made as much sense as thinking Xander could do that, or that a _person_ bit her throat open. “He _had_ a dog,” Cordelia whispered at length. It was the only thing that even halfway fit. Her father said nothing in response. He tried to squeeze her hand again, but she pulled it way, balling it into a fist. “’S’a Mistake,” she said, tears shining in her eyes, “tell them. Let Xander out.”

“No,” said her father quietly. His voice was hard as granite. “You’re sixteen. Whatever you let him do to you, it’s still rape.”

****

Harmony didn’t open her eyes right away. She didn’t want to be awake. The pain in her throat was significant, but not at all what she expected from being shot. It burned but only a little. It ached but it didn’t throb. It was more an inconvenience than an affliction. Everything about being undead was so _different_ from being alive. Every sensation, every desire, every idea or motivation was duller or sharper or lighter or heavier or just a little off center from where it ought to be. Harmony didn’t like things to be different; she liked them to be the same. Harmony Kendall was the A number one fan of normal. She was getting very tired of very strange.

She never thought to wonder who’s bed she was lying in (under the covers, fully dressed) until she felt a hand brush against her cheek, neither warm nor cold, as it pulled the hair back from her wounded throat. “So you are awake,” Spike said quietly as she opened her eyes to face him, “I thought so.” Some of the smug was gone out of his voice. He’d been knocked down a notch or five. She hardly recognized him he was so... nonthreatening. The look in his eyes—plain to her vampire vision even in the very dim room—was the look of a man who wants a woman, but it was more than that. He was _concerned_ about her. In life she probably would have found it sweet. Now she just found it... pitiful. Pitiful, but convenient, Harmony realized. Wherever she was, there wasn’t much question how she had gotten here or that she’d rather be here than trapped in a church with that raging superhuman freak Buffy Summers.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” Spike teased. His cool, ironic smile was not pitiful. Nor his granite jaw. Nor his platinum hair. Nor his lean, muscular, shirtless upper body. The bloody gash across his cheek, the fact that he’d obviously gotten it fighting to rescue her, was a _little_ pathetic, but it was also kind of manly in a sappy, romantic sort of way. Harmony ran her fingers the length of his wound and licked his blood from her fingertips, trying to think of something sexy and cool to say.

“Yeah,” Spike acknowledged, “Sister Shotgun got me one good with that damned diamond. Hopefully it won’t scar, but you never can tell. “Don’t bother,” he added, seeing that she was trying to speak. “Your windpipe’s severed. We vamps don’t breathe to live, but the voice is still a wind instrument. Don’t worry!” he laughed at her panicked expression, “ten to one it’ll heal up in a week or two. If it doesn’t, though,” he added firmly, “you’re just going to have to live with it. I’ve had my fill of these mystical healing rituals. They are an _unbelievable_ pain in the ass to set up, and I’ve never yet been better off when I was done with one than I was when I started.

“We’ll be alright here for a while,” he went on confidently. “This is the last place Mrs. Dustemall is ever going to come looking, especially now Angel’s gone for good. Painful memories and all that. Lease is paid to the end of the year, utilities included. Only way they’d rent to the old Poofter when he was too soul-having to drive a harder bargain. And he even did us the favor of putting up those sun-tight metal blinds. Yeah,” he crowed, celebrating his own cleverness. “I reckon this is about the safest place in all of California.”

Harmony felt relieved to hear the tone of the authority in Spike’s voice again. He may not have been the vampire king he had seemed to be a few hours ago, but he was still a tough, smooth, vicious thing that could keep Harmony safer from all the other vicious things than she’d ever be on her own. She wanted to tell him so, to let him know that she appreciated his protection and understood, even welcomed, the price of it. She wanted to be his slave, for him to tell her what to do, tell her when she was doing it right, in the way that would lead to not dying.

Words failed her, but she knew other ways to communicate. She rose slightly, tilting her head, lips slightly apart, half sitting up into the space where he was already leaning over her. It was as much of a cue as he needed. They’d both done this dance before. The steps were a little different than Harmony was used to, but excitingly so. 

He fell upon her, pinning her down to the bed, forceful despite her lack of resistance, blurring the lines between passion and aggression as they kissed with the ferocity of two carnivores trying to devour each other face first. Suddenly, he was a creature with fangs and claws, ripping her clothes off with both, taking more than a little skin with them. Her creature responded in kind. Soon they were both naked and bleeding, aroused and incited to further violent passion by the sight and smell of blood, even of their own kind.

Hungry as she was, he forced himself inside of her before she was quite ready, not bothering with any of the preliminaries she’d come to expect from human sex. It hurt, but not more than she wanted it to. It felt good soon enough. But pleasure wasn’t enough to excite him. He wanted her in pain. Still moving inside of her hard and fast, pounding her for all she was worth, he wrapped his hands around her injured throat and squeezed.

If she could have screamed, she would have roared instead. She scratched and slashed him with her claws, scoring his back and chest, as delighted with his pain and with his pleasure as he was with hers. Even the anger she felt as he choked her, the frustration of being pinned in place by the weight of his body, was really a species of lust. Her own savage counter attacks were made as much to incite as to punish his violence. She wanted him to fuck her harder. She wanted to be damaged by it.

But within five minutes of that first carnivorous kiss, he was already coming inside her. Taking his hands from her throat, Spike rolled off of her with an evil but very human smirk. Harmony started to feel miffed, cheated, mildly angry in an everyday, disappointed way that wasn’t any fun at all. She slipped into her own human face and glared at him accusingly, arms crossed over her bare chest. “Oh, lighten up,” he said with a mildly derisive laugh. “I’m not done; I’m just taking a break.”

****

It was painful to watch, even for Sheriff Wilkins, who had seen some pretty horrific things. Mark Engels’ hands were shaking so much that he could barely hold the Information still to drag the pen in his trembling hand over it. Ron had to resist the urge to reach out and grab the paper or the pen or both to steady them. Mark never looked up. He could barely manage to make eye contact with the _papers._ His shoulders were hunched defensively in his oversized suit jacket. He’d lost twenty pounds in a week. “Now the Notice of Intent,” Ron coaxed. His being here, personally spoon feeding the documents to the Prosecutor in the dead of night, was irregular, even by Sunnydale standards, but someone had to do it, and he didn’t want anyone else to see the man in this condition.

Suddenly stock still, poor Mark stared like a spotlighted rabbit at the official form that was meant to start the process of killing Eric Wiftler. The Sheriff could see he had neither the guts to sign it, nor the gumption to say no. He leaned down over him and took an authoritative tone. “Sign right here,” he commanded. Shaking again, panicked, Engels ducked under his desk and vomited in his trash can. Ron gave him a minute to recover before pressing the pen into his limp hand again and repeating firmly, “Sign right here.” Engels nodded dumbly, doing as he was told.“Just one more,” Ron assured him. “Just the Information on the Harris kid.”

“I... can’t prove most of these charges,” Engels worried aloud, still looking extremely ill. “Even the admission on the misdemeanor statutory rape charge could be... custodial... there could be a Miranda issue. Maybe in Juvenile Court...”

“Mr. Chase wants this filed in Criminal Court,” the Sheriff instructed firmly. “He wants felony charges. Sign here.”Mark felt like he might throw up again, but he signed the Information: Forcible Rape, Kidnapping, Attempted Murder, Aggravated Battery (which legally should have been merged into the attempted murder), Grand Theft (Auto), Indecent Exposure, Public Lewdness, Obstruction of Justice and Resisting Arrest. He was sure he’d be disbarred for these blatant, corrupt abuses of his prosecutorial discretion and the scores of others he’d committed over the years. No one else ever had been, but there was always a first time. Prosecutorial misconduct was a nationwide epidemic. All the research said so. Eventually the public had to admit it, and he was sure this would be the case. He’d be made an example of.

All the same, he couldn’t say ‘no’ to the Sheriff, not when he was looking at him like that. He had a _Wilkinsy_ kind of look, the kind that looks like it should seem warm and friendly and nonthreatening, but it doesn’t. Knowing, on top of all that, that he had a heavy hitter like Chase standing behind him... there was literally nothing Mark could do. If he resigned, surrendered his law license, left the state, it would make the Mayor as well as the Sheriff angry, not to mention his wife or his in-laws or the two Judges Fondren. His parents would be mortally embarrassed, disappointed. He couldn’t even kill himself on that account.

“I just know I’m going to end up in prison over this,” the Prosecutor whined miserably. Ron Wilkins was appalled. And frightened. Prosecutors didn’t go to prison for bringing false charges. They were bullet proof. For Mark to have become so broken as to lose confidence in that very solid fact was astonishing. Ron knew who must be responsible for this. Thank God the girl had no real inkling of her own power. Even so, she was becoming truly dangerous. Maybe it was time to talk to the Mayor again about the possibility of doing something permanent about it while they might still have the chance.

 


	7. The Evening and the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newly married Buffy and Giles begin building a life together, one difficult, tragic and beautiful day at a time even as the consequences of everything that happened on the night of their marriage begin to be felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II: The Lesser Light

Buffy called her mother and asked her to open the garage door, but she didn’t say why. When her new son-in-law walked into the kitchen cradling the naked dead body of a young girl in his arms, wrapped only in an old blanket, Joyce was shocked to say the least. Buffy stood at her husband’s shoulder. Her clothes and hands were heavily stained with blood, almost as if she had been swimming in it. “This is Kendra,” she explained, “the other Slayer.”

“She’s dead,” said Joyce, stupidly stating the obvious, unable to think of anything else.

“Who’s dead?” Wallace demanded, coming in through the dining room. His eyes widened a little at the sight of them, but he had seen horrible sights before. He was relieved to see that Buffy was alive whatever else was going on.

“Kendra,” Buffy repeated, “She’s... she _was_...also the Slayer... it’s a long story. Short version: killed by vampires, most of them now dead.” Even a glance at the body, what little of it was exposed, showed that the girl had been bitten a number of times by something with roughly the same jaw size as a human but much sharper teeth. Her skin and especially her lips were a bloodless gray color. “We called her Watcher,” Buffy went on, trying to keep it together, to be cool, professional about it, blinking back a few tears anyway. Wallace was unpleasantly reminded of his early days, or maybe his just plain bad days, on the job. “He’s also her guardian. He’ll be here by Thursday night. We just have to... keep her... somewhere.”

“My God, Willow!” Joyce gasped, suddenly registering the presence and apparent condition of Buffy’s best friend. “Are _you_ alright? What happened to you?” That she had not been mauled to death was the nicest thing that could be said about her appearance. She hunched defensively in Rupert Giles’ suit coat as if trying to disappear, or maybe just to hid the fact that all she had on under it was a curtain or a table cloth. Her face was tear-streaked, her makeup smeared. Her lips were bleeding were they had been punctured in a Morse-code-like pattern of dots and dashes that was sickeningly easy to interpret.

“I’m... tired,” Willow murmured, sounding very tired indeed, letting Joyce embrace her but not making eye contact. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t—” she broke off, sobbing in her strong, maternal arms.

Wallace wrapped the last available pair of arms around Buffy and let her weep for a while too. It was all he could do. It seemed apparent that regardless of his previous opinion, regardless of their actual origins as a species, Buffy and her husband and friends were in fact fighting something that, until a better word came along, he would have to call vampires. He thought of his old high school History teacher, who used to repeat ad nauseum that ‘the past is like another country’. He felt himself very much a foreigner.

In a very few minutes, Buffy released him, drying her eyes. She went to take a shower and pointed Willow toward Joyce’s bathroom to do the same. It was nearly three am. Everyone was exhausted. No one wanted to talk about it.

Joyce busied her hands with starting a fire to burn the bloodier items of everyone’s clothing, which now included B.F. Wallace’s suit jacket. She busied her mind with trying to figure out where everyone, including Kendra, was going to sleep. She had Mr. Giles carry the girl’s lifeless body, wrapped in a clean white sheet from the linen closet, back out to the garage and lay her to rest on an old credenza in the small storage room that opened off the parking area.

The place was cool and dry, which Wallace said should keep her from decomposing for a day or two.

In the dim light of the forty watt bulb that hung from the ceiling, the tall foreigner’s face was almost completely without expression, unreadable, except for fatigue. He took off his glasses and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to stave off a sinus headache. In a moment, he seemed to be over it, taking out his pocket square and cleaning his glasses, focusing on them intently, as if they were infinitely more important than the murdered child in front of him. ‘Cool as a Cucumber,’ Joyce thought bitterly, turning and walking back into the house to help Wallace make up the sofa.

When Giles felt sufficiently pulled together he went upstairs to check on Buffy. Willow was standing in the upstairs hallway, wearing a blue terrycloth robe that evidently belonged to Joyce. He checked the impulse to ask her how she was feeling; it was too appallingly stupid a question. By now he had gathered that Spike, rather than Angel had assaulted her. Rightly or wrongly, it made him feel slightly relieved, but it was surly no better for her. “Do you need anything?” he asked, which felt only marginally less idiotic.

“No,” she said quietly. “I just want someone to tell me where I can sleep.”

“I... really don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m... new here myself.”

“I’m afraid, there’s only my room,” Joyce said apologetically, coming up the stairs, “I mean, if you don’t mind sharing.” Willow didn’t mind. It seemed to Giles that she could use a little mothering tonight.

They left him alone in the vaguely familiar hallway. He half remembered half guessed which door was Buffy’s. The space beyond was both familiar and shocking. He had been in the room once, about six months earlier. It seemed like a decade. It was a little girl’s bedroom, not in a pink, cotton candy sort of way, but it was. The bed was only three quarters full size, pushed up under a slanted junction of wall and ceiling so that only a very short person could sit up in it without being literally hit over the head with a photographic print of pink and orange flowers. There were stuffed animals and other fuzzy things on it, including mismatched throw pillows in everything from purple satin to leopard printed fake fur. There were tiny paper butterflies on the walls. There were half a dozen unframed posters stuck willy-nilly over the tastefully patterned wall paper: figures of fantasy, skylines of exotic cities at night; images of escape from the crushing confines of adolescence.

Of course, none of these things had shocked him six month ago. Back then he’d known that Buffy was a little girl, even if she was also the Chosen One. Well, one thing all little girls did was to grow up. Some grew up faster than others, Slayers most usually among them. There wasn’t always time to redecorate.

“Does it pass inspection, officer?” Buffy asked, putting her arms around his waist and pressing her towel wrapped body against his back.

“The absence of mummified remains in an improvement,” he noted impassively, turning to give her a peck on the lips.

“The shower’s free if you want to waste some water,” Buffy said, which he supposed was her way of telling him that he was too filthy from the day’s adventures to sleep in her bed as he was. He showered quickly, only belatedly realizing that he had nothing to put on. He smiled, thinking back to the Pacific Coast Motor Lodge, wrapped a towel around his waist and headed back to Buffy’s room.

Buffy wasn’t still wearing her towel. She had on a satiny nightgown that was _not_ made for a little girl. But she was already asleep, lying on her side, facing the wall, which actually suited Giles perfectly. He snuggled up against her, like a slightly bigger spoon, too tired to be aroused by the warmth of her body, but not too tired to be comforted by it. Within seconds he was asleep. What seemed like seconds later, he was awake again. Buffy’s alarm clock was loudly announcing that it was seven a.m.

The first thing he became aware of, besides the facts that the Sun was too damn bright and the buzzing too damn loud, was that it would be marvelous to be asleep again. The second thing was Buffy’s satiny buttocks rubbing against his hardening cock through a gap in his towel as she stirred to life with her own groan of protest. “And the evening and the morning were the first day,” he murmured. Maybe it wasn’t so bad waking up after all.

“Hey,” Buffy said, rolling over to face him, smiling a sleepy smile, “there’s a naked man in my bed. Mmmmm, and he’s happy to see me, too,” she added, snuggling close against him and kissing him on the lips. She reached down and slid her hand under his towel.

Taking her hand in his he muttered, “Had we but world enough and time,” then immediately wished he hadn’t, partly because he disapproved of the quotation of famous lines in senses directly contrary to the essence of their original usages, but mainly because the words reminded him of young Owen Thurman, who would be six days dead today. If nothing else, the thought slightly reduced his desire for one of the two things he had no time to do right now.

“What’s wrong?” Buffy asked, smoothing her free hand over his furrowed brow in a way that he was starting to find unnerving.

“Nothing,” he said automatically, sitting up and planting his feet on the floor, “I just... don’t want to be late for work.”

“We’ve got almost an hour,” Buffy pointed out, reaching to pull him back into her arms, “it’s like a two minute drive to school.”

“I’m to be there by 7:45,” he pointed out, getting to his feet, “and I’ve got to go home and change clothes. I ought to check in with the Council as well. I expect they’ve left messages, wanting... an after action report on last night. I expect they’re wondering where I am.”

“God! No doubt!” Buffy exclaimed worriedly, realizing that Sam Zabuto must have already reported Kendra’s death. “How did we not think of that last night?”

“We were near death from exhaustion,” Giles pointed out. “We weren’t thinking that far ahead. Speaking of which, would you mind going and see if I left my clothes in the bathroom. I don’t really fancy trying to drive home in my towel.”

Buffy laughed shaking her head. “What is it?” Giles asked self-consciously.

“A month ago,” she said wonderingly, “I thought you were the most uptight person in the entire Universe. Now you’re the guy who climbs out of windows, steals cars and can’t remember where he left his clothes.”

He laughed too. “Well,” he admitted eyes twinkling, “you were probably right. I was...erm a little...‘uptight’. I just hope you’re not too disappointed when you realize that I still am.”

He shared in her continued easy laughter, but he was only about half joking. Buffy had definitely seen a glimpse of his reckless, passionate side of late, and he might have to make a few more bold moves before everything was said and done with the Council; but it was his considered opinion that a man with the responsibilities he had and was about to have couldn’t afford to be anything but cautious and circumspect and neither, for that matter, could a woman with Buffy’s obligations. He was not looking forward to having to be the one to keep reminding her of that fact. He so very much preferred the way she looked at him, the way she talked to him, the way she touched him and felt about him, the way she _saw_ him when he was being reckless and passionate.

****

“Listen! You’re making a mistake!” Eric screamed, “I wasn’t even at the Bronze last night! Ask my mom!! Ask my dad!!! I was home all night!!!!”

‘Well at least something’s going right around here for a change,’ Xander thought hazily. After the Kafka meets Seven King night he’d had, it kind of restored his faith in civilization to know Eric Wiftler was getting locked up for _something_ again after that B.S. probation deal he’d gotten for kidnapping Cordelia last fall.

But when he heard the door to his own cell clang open, he shot to his feet. “Oh no!” he protested, “You are not locking _him_ in here with _me_!”

“You have the right to keep your mouth shut,” the guard pointed out sarcastically.

“Not Harris!!!” Eric was screaming, more hysterical than ever, “He’s crazy!!! He’ll kill me!!! Please!!! Please!!! Put me somewhere else!!!”

“He tried to decapitate my girlfriend!” Xander pointed out hotly. That got a laugh from the guards that Eric wasn’t in on, making both boys angrier, but for different reasons.

“That was never proven,” Eric insisted.

“Cuz you cut a deal, you coward!” Xander shouted. “Don’t make me hurt this guy,” he pleaded, more or less seriously, “I’m in enough trouble.”

It was to no avail. They locked Eric in with Xander and left him screaming and banging on the tiny, barred Plexiglas window of the solid steal cell door. ‘It’s a pretty sad jail where I’m the tough guy,’ Xander thought, but he said, “How about _I_ make you a deal, Eric. Shut the hell up and let me sleep for a couple more hours and I won’t kill you for at least a couple of hours.”

“He threatened me!” Eric shouted at the camera, “Did you hear him threaten me?”

“Silent,” Xander said tiredly, falling back onto his bunk, “look it up.” But it was no good. Even if Eric shut his yap, it wasn’t like he could actually sleep locked in a cell with a panicking psycho who thought he was a deadly threat. He was going to have to do something to calm Eric down before someone really did get hurt. “So what’s the mistake?” Xander asked. “What are you in for?”

“They think _I’m_ the Sunnydale Butcher!!!” Eric declared indignantly.

Xander actually had to put his hand to his mouth and bite it to keep from laughing. He pretended to suck thoughtfully on the skin between his thumb and forefinger. “You? Cutting up girls and dumping them around town?” he asked when he was able to keep a more-or-less straight face. “Now where would anyone get a crazy notion like that?” It was perfect, it really was. And the best part was it couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy.

Xander guessed he ought to feel some sympathy for a guy who was getting framed up by the same shady cops that he was, but he really, really didn’t. After all, there was no way the human legal system was going to give Angel the credit for killing those girls. Why shouldn’t it go to Eric? Anyway, Xander more than half figured _he’d_ be let go as soon as Cordelia got a chance to straighten her father out on the facts. After all, it was hard to image the man who could say “no” to Cordelia Chase when she was determined. She was his ace in the hold. If his so-called victim loved him and wanted him freed, what could anyone else say about it?

****

When Giles got back to his apartment there were two messages on his machine. Probably both from the Council or persons associated therewith. It was 7:20. He decided to get dressed first. His closet held four clean suits of clothes, all comfortably dull, all about the same. He wanted very much for the days of his life to be like that again, at least for a little while. He needed a break from this permanent state of emergency. His eyes fell on a red bow tie, which he almost never wore. He smiled. He did like _one_ exciting new development in his life. He wished that everything else would simmer down so that he could properly enjoy it.

By the time that he’d shaved and put on his typical tweeds it was 7:35. He tried to accept the fact that he’d be late for work, to tell himself that since he was likely to quit or be fired in the next month or so in any case, it probably didn’t matter that much. Still, there was something to be said for punctuality as a virtue in itself. He’d have to return the calls from the library, he decided. He’d just have to be careful that no one was in a position to hear him.

The first message, left at four a.m., was from Phillip Robson: “This message is for Rupert Giles. Please call me immediately to discuss an urgent matter.” He left a London number. Stiff. Formal. Official business. Anyone would have thought he was a bill collector. Well the bills would be coming due soon enough. Giles was about to find out just how good his credit was.

The second message was from Cordelia Chase. She sounded terrible. “Xander...” she croaked “’sin jail. Help us.” The phone number identified by the machine told him she was in Room 208 at Sunnydale General Hospital. She had called before five a.m., which spoke to him of secrecy as well as urgency. A probable explanation was horribly obvious.

It was 7:40 a.m. He was going to be late for work. He called Hal first, then Buffy. She was in the car with Joyce, Willow and Grampa Wallace, just arriving at school. “I have a job for our great detective,” he said. She handed Wallace the phone. He explained the situation to him.

“Vampires,” the old man repeated resignedly.

“So I assume,” Giles replied, “I don’t expect you to prove it, just verify it. Get a recorded statement from her exonerating him, without her parents knowing, and take it to my lawyer, Hal Gaston. He’ll handle the rest.” Wallace agreed. Somehow his position seemed to have shifted in the night. Not that Giles thought they would ever be bosom friends, but it seemed to have finally dawned on the old man that there was a war going on and there were sides to it. If Rupert’s side was Buffy’s side, then he was going to be on it.

“We need to have a talk about finances soon,” Giles said when Wallace handed Buffy back the phone. “Hal is talented, not cheap, and Xander’s charges may be quite serious.”

“Whatever it costs, pay it,” Buffy said.

“I will,” Giles assured her, “which is all the more reason why we need to discuss our finances.”

“Sure,” she chirped with frightening indifference, “like I said, you’re the budget guy.”

It was 8:00, the exact moment of the second bell, when Giles arrived at the library door, key in hand, to find that Snyder had already opened it and was waiting for him. “We need to talk,” said the Principal bruskly.

“What about?” Giles asked warily.

“Rumors” he said darkly.

Giles yawned. It was purely from exhaustion, but he didn’t mind also appearing bored. “Don’t tell me you’ve started ‘believing in miracles,’” he said dryly.

“Explain this,” Snyder said, taking a Dictaphone from his coat pocket.

Despite the poor sound quality, the frantic voice of Willow Rosenberg was unmistakable. “Cordelia!” she cried, “Cordelia, pick up. The vampires aren’t waiting. They’re attacking tonight! Buffy and Giles aren’t back yet. I’m still trying to find Kendra. Call me!”

Snyder looked at him expectantly in the silence that followed. Giles produced a puzzled expression. “Vampires?” he said, “what the devil is the girl on about? Or should I ask what she’s on?”

“I’m more interested in where you went with Ms. Summers last night,” Snyder snarled.

“I went to bed last night,” he said, though technically, it had been that morning. “And not with our ‘Miss Summers’ I assure you,” he added unable to suppress a small, private smile.

That much the Principal figured was true. He’d been right all along about the real nature of the clandestine relationship between the librarian and the delinquent, which the message confirmed. But he’d expected Mr. Giles to be more worried about how it would sound to the uninitiated. It took hearing it through fresh ears to realize it merely sounded crazy rather than incriminating.

“I don’t like hearing your name linked with hers,” Snyder grumbled.

“Nor do I,” Giles replied. “The implications are... unseemly and quite dangerous. I’m aware of that, you know.”

“I’ve just hired a new English teacher,” Snyder said warningly, “with a master’s degree in library science. Whatever is feeding these rumors, I want it to stop.”

“I can’t be held responsible for what other people choose to believe!” Giles objected. He took a breath and stepped onto the limb, “especially in a town where so much needs explaining.”

“Some things,” said Snyder menacingly, “are better unexplained.”

“Yes, but better for whom?” Giles challenged. He didn’t really mind the sort of willful ignorance of the supernatural that prevailed in most of the modern world. It was just a defensive mechanism, and generally preferable to a panicked population. But he was coming to realize more strongly everyday that something quite different was at work in Sunnydale. The local authorities were actively covering up for the Forces of Darkness. It did not sit well with him.

“You’re not from this town,” Snyder all but growled at him. “Hell, you’re not even from this country. You don’t know the score. So I’m going to tell you once, straight out. Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. The same goes for _your_ Miss Summers. I don’t have to believe in miracles to... call attention to the signs and portents. Even among the ‘highest authorities,’ you might be surprised what people choose to believe.” Despite this yipping and snapping, Rupert kept his temper in check. When Snyder saw that he wasn’t going to get any reaction to speak of, he withdrew in frustration.

For his part, Giles felt that he’s laid enough of his cards on the table. Maybe too many, but he had seen Snyder’s hand clearly enough. He was a part of the problem in every way. The less he knew about Buffy’s real importance the better. It would be best in the end if he believed that their only secret had been sex after all. The same went for everyone in local government. If they were not literally allied with the Dark Forces, they were cowed and subservient to them. The best they could be was avoided.

He decided to sort and separate his own things from those that belonged to the school at once and to get Willow to reproduce Jenny’s scans of the library’s occult collections in some form he could carry away and printed out later. Much as he’d always loathed computers, he had to admit, there was some merit to the idea of being able to slip the whole library into his briefcase and walk out with it right under the noses of the enemy.

****

“Sometimes it’s better, in cases like this,” Mr. Wallace said gravely, “if the parents aren’t in the room. Sometimes it’s easier to talk about these things to a stranger.” Mrs. Chase gave him a tired, worried look. “It may _seem_ strange,” the kind faced old man acknowledged, “but talking to someone you don’t know can seem more private. Your daughter, like most girls, cares a whole lot what you think of her. It doesn’t matter if you tell her that she can say anything and you’ll love her no matter what. She knows that. She still doesn’t want you to think of her in that situation. Experience tells us that we’ll get a more candid statement if you’ll step outside.”

“Are you a policeman?” Cordelia’s mother asked doubtfully.

Wallace smiled. “Not for a few years now,” he said. “I’m a volunteer. Volunteers are often used, in cases like this.”

****

“Mr. Giles?” said a woman’s voice, nervously, timidly.

“Yes?” he answered, looking up from the coffee he’d been pouring to steel himself for his talk with Robson. He stood and shook the woman’s hand. Her sad brown eyes, filled with a kind of apologetic desperation, were dry, but their puffiness spoke of days of endless weeping. He found her nervous smile entirely too familiar.

“I’m Wendy Paston,” she confirmed dropping her eyes, “Owen Thurman’s mother.” His heart ached for her. He wanted to tell her that that was nothing to be ashamed of, that Owen had been a fine boy. It seemed like a hard sell under the circumstances as she believed them to be.

“I’m so sorry,” he said instead, and he was. “He was... he will be missed very much.”

“Thank you,” she said guiltily, as one receiving an undeserved compliment. She hesitated a moment, actually wringing her hands as she tried to work up to whatever she had come to say. Giles couldn’t imagine what that might be. She didn’t seem angry with him as he might have expected, just beside herself with grief. “We just got his body back this morning,” she said bleakly. “There was a... backlog... at the coroner’s office.” She paused again, looking down at her feet. Giles hoped to God he wasn’t expected to make some response to that.

“When are the services to be?” he asked finally. “I’d... like very much to... pay my respects.”

“Saturday at one,” she said, “in the small chapel at the Sunnydale Funeral Home. We’re, not expecting many people. Owen didn’t... make friends easily. And now...” she let the sentence die an early death. Giles nodded, not needing to hear her say it. In the past week, the flower of Sunnydale’s youth had been decimated by mass murder. It was hardly the first time. There were precious few tears left for a presumed killer who had taken his own life.

“If there’s anything I can do...” he found himself saying, feeling a fool, knowing there was nothing that could be done.

“Actually,” Ms. Paston said, finding the nerve to look him in the eye briefly, “that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Would you—you see our minister... Linda Frank was... a good friend of his wife and he said...” she struggled to keep her voice, choking back tears, “he said he wouldn’t feel comfortable—” she broke off in a sob. Giles found himself holding her while she wept brokenly against his chest. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, fishing a wad of tissues from her purse and pulling herself together a little.

“Not at all,” Giles assured her, keeping a friendly hand on her shoulder.

“The chaplain at the funeral home agreed to preach the service,” Wendy went on, “but he never met Owen and he doesn’t seem to have time to hear too much about him.... I thought if someone who knew him—Owen admired you so—I thought if you could say a few words...”

“Of course,” Giles found himself saying, though he had a sinking feeling even as he said it. Even if, as he rather suspected, Owen had been more enamored of the idea of a tragic, unrequited love than actually suffering from one, surely his mother knew that he’d pined after Buffy to the day he died. She might even have supposed the two events were not unrelated. Whether she thought so or not, she was clearly unaware of the widely known fact that Rupert Giles had been his secret, successful rival. If she were to come upon that information before or, worse still, during the service, it could only cause her more needless pain. Even if she learned six months from now that her son had been eulogized by Buffy’s husband, he didn’t know how the news might impact her. But he found it impossible to refuse. Owen _had_ been a fine boy who almost certainly would have grown into a good man, given the opportunity. He deserved to be remembered with affection and respect. He deserved better than the pro forma remarks of the chaplain of the Sunnydale Funeral Home. “I’ll do my best,” he assured her, “though I’ll warn you, I’m no public speaker.”

“Thank you,” she repeated with heartbreaking gratitude. “Owen always said you were the only other person he knew who really _liked_ words. I know he’d trust you to find the right ones.”

****

Hal Gaston exchanged a reasonably facsimile of a pleasant greeting with Ron Wilkins as the attorney entered the Prosecutors office and the Sheriff left. The only thing unpleasant about it was that neither was (ever) pleased to see the other, but (as always) they didn’t let it show. Hal wasn’t worried. He could bank on Ron assuming he was there to speak for Buffy. So far, they hadn’t tried to get in his way about that. He guessed they were cutting their losses (or at least biding their time) on whatever grudge it was that they bore the girl.

From what he knew of Garrett Chase, the Harris kid was likely to be a different story. Still, if he could get Engels alone and walk him through the obviously exculpatory facts, he thought he could get some traction. Mark Engels was an amoral crony of the Wilkins Junta but he wasn’t an idiot, and he cared about his public reputation. When he learned that the girl was ready to go to the mat for her lover, he’d think twice about putting himself in the middle of the sordid public spectacle that would result.

But when Hal saw Engels, or what was left of him, his calculations when right out the window. “Jesus Christ!” he breathed, stunned. He had an idea of a Mark Engels which the broken, hollow creature behind the desk did little to support.

Engels looked up at him in silent, miserable apology for being such a shocking and pathetic sight. “I know why you’re here,” he whispered morosely. “The Summers case.” Hal was silent a moment, still trying to find his bearings in the situation. His first thought was that the Sheriff had done something to him, but neither why nor how was apparent. The man had _withered_ in the two weeks since he’d last seen him. That seemed like more torment than even Ron Wilkins was capable of inflicting on such a formidable target. “You’re withdrawing your offer, aren’t you?” Engels murmured worriedly. “You’re going to make me try and prove it.”

Hal might have thought he was joking if he hadn’t seemed so emotionally devastated. “Of course I am,” he said, in a way that could be serious if his opponent was or a joke if not.

“I’ll... Nolle Pros the theft and drug charges and... come off the probation,” Mark said, striving unsuccessfully for a firm businesslike tone, “but she has to plead to the forgery, or attempted forgery at least, and pay a fiv—four hundred dollar fine ... plus court costs.”

“Dismiss the theft and drug charges with prejudice, misdemeanor attempted forgery, hundred dollar fine plus court costs,” Hal countered, automatically taking the advantage he saw in the situation, even while wondering what the hell was going on. Engels nodded, clearly relieved, still not having the nerve to look up. “Let’s see if we can get Judge to take her plea after today’s Criminal arraignments,” Hal said, ready to run with his victory before the poor man was replaced by someone still competent to resist, “I’ll gen-up the forms and let Barb know that you asked to add her to the docket if that’s alright.”

Mark nodded again, shuddering. Hal was tempted to leave right then. He had a very lawyerly impulse to hold on to the bird in his hand. But the client had made her priorities very clear. “I have another case to discuss,” Hal said gravely. Engels looked up at him, seeming afraid to respond. Hal felt an uneasy impulse to look over his shoulder, as if there might be something terrifying standing quietly behind him causing this reaction. Fighting the feeling, he said, “I’ve also been retained to represent young Mr. Harris.”

“I won’t talk about that!”Engels moaned in anguished terror, “It’s... beyond my control.”

“I have evidence that—” Hal started to explain.

“I told you!” Engels wailed, “It’s beyond my control!” To Hal’s horror, the Prosecutor laid his head on his desk and began to weep bitterly. “I can’t stop it!” he screamed, startling himself. “Unless!” he added, eyes shining with a kind of desperate hope, “you could request a probable cause hearing! Then Fondren can do what he wants! I can’t be blamed for that!”

Deciding to do just that, wishing he were more confident of the result, Hal politely excused himself, glad to be leaving. He had a vague sense that whatever madness had overtaken this shattered creature could be contagious.

****

“And she just let herself in?” Willow asked indignantly, appropriately scandalized on Buffy’s behalf as a best friend should be. She _looked_ bright eyed and cheerful this morning, but she also looked like there were no holes in her lips where they’d been sewn shut and like her skin was perfectly smooth, even and unfreckled without the need for foundation.

Buffy nodded. “Then she actually says to Giles, ‘you ought to be more careful where you hide your key.’”

“Ouch, wow, Buffy you don’t really think they...”

“Yeah, I do, actually, but you’re missing the point, Wil, _she_ really thinks the same thing about me.”

“Maybe,” Willow conceded, “or maybe that’s what she’s here to find out. I mean she is a Watcher, right?”

“She’s, like, Watcher concentrate,” Buffy confirmed morosely.

“Extra tweedy?” Willow asked.

“I don’t think she could wear anything as offbeat and interesting as tweed,” Buffy said. “She’s not ready for tweed. She’d have to work up to tweed.”

“Then what makes you think they—?”

“Shush,” Buffy hissed as they approached the door to Ms. Frank’s old room, “she’s in there already.”

“Well,” said Willow cheerfully, “Tardiness is the Eighth Deadly Sin,”

“Thus Sayeth the Council,” Buffy agreed, and in they went.

There she stood in front of the forcefully chalked legend, MRS. POST, glaring disapprovingly at the universe. Mrs. was underlined three times. Willow could see where Buffy was coming from. She was dressed conservatively, even by English teaching standards, in a linen suit that was neither gray nor tan without being taupe. The cut was not flattering, but it failed to hide the fact that she was, as Giles might have said, ‘extremely well proportioned,’ though her severe expression might have kept the average person from noticing that fact.

They sat down at their preferred back corner table for three just the two of them. “God I hope Xander is alright,” Willow whispered.

“He will be,” Buffy assured her in a classroom undertone. “Come on Wil, it’s just _jail_. He’ll be out in a day or two and eventually it’ll all get straightened out. Honestly,” Buffy said, turning towards Willow, focused, intent, “I’m more worried about Cordelia. Giles said she could barely talk.” The second bell rang, Buffy ignored it. “And this morning in History—” She was also ignoring Willow’s apparently much too subtle signals to stop talking.

“ _Miss_ Summers,” said _Mrs_. Post crisply. “Othello, Act I, please summarize the plot and major themes.” Buffy cocked her head like a puzzled terrier. She looked at Willow but under Mrs. Post’s impatient gaze what could she do to help? “Well?” said Mrs. Post expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy said, “I wasn’t at school yesterday.”

“Nor was I,” Mrs. Post pointed out tersely. After another awkward pause she added, her voice dripping with scorn, “According to Ms. Frank’s lesson plans, this material was assigned on Thursday to be ready for discussion by Tuesday; it is now Wednesday, therefore, Miss Summers, you should be prepared to discuss, at least in general terms, the basic action involved in Act I.”

Buffy gave the woman her best tell-me-you’re-not-serious look. Gwendolyn was totally serious. “Well,” Buffy said, striving for a humble, apologetic tone though she felt a Watcher, of all people, should have understood that she had other priorities, “I left early on Thursday.”

“And were you absent on Monday as well?” Mrs. Post asked, her voice now a disingenuous mockery of a bright, interested tone.

“No,” Buffy admitted, a little resentment creeping into her voice. This was beyond ridiculous. Even Willow looked a little put out, even through her magical mask.

“Well, then,” Mrs. Post continued, her voice still viciously cheerful. “I’m sure you inquired of your classmates at the first opportunity and familiarized yourself, at least with the critical notes on pages 1246 to 1250. So, from that very slight association, can you tell us, in the most general terms, the basic roles of at least some of the major characters, Iago, for instance?”

“Let’s see...” said Buffy, twirling a finger in her hair, pretending to think about it. She was starting to feel a little mean spirited herself. “Oh, of course,” she said at length, smacking her palm lightly against her forehead. “ _I_ know that. He was the parrot, right? Duh!” Kids who’d been scared silent since their first glimpse of Mrs. Post were stealthily starting to titter.

“I’m sorry?” Mrs. Post said, blinking in an unnervingly Giles-like way, genuinely taken aback. Well he _had_ said they were all related. Cue toccata and fugue for _banjos_ in D minor.

“You know,” Buffy went on, the veriest semblance of innocence, “some people say he was just a bitter, ugly old bird who didn’t know when to stop talking, but personally, I thought he made the movie.” Gwendolyn’s eyes flashed, almost really. There was scattered, muffled laughter everywhere. Buffy felt less guilty than satisfied, though she knew she probably wasn’t making a new and lasting ally in their struggle with the Council. Really, this woman should know better than to attack a Slayer for saving the world instead of reading Shakespeare.

“Well,” said Mrs. Post, with strained dignity, “ _fascinating_ as that is, I think perhaps it’s time we heard from someone who’s actually done the reading. Miss Rosenberg?”

If Mrs. Post thought she was going to catch Willow off guard, she was very, very wrong. As Willow held forth on the plot and themes of the first Act of Othello, she was in her element. She was herself again, her burdens pushed to the back of her mind by the familiar, comforting feeling of academic enthusiasm. If only it could be second period English Lit forever.

****

It was nearly nine o’clock, five o’clock in London, by the time Giles was able to call in. The Council must have been waiting for his call all afternoon. “Robson,” the man answered.

“Rupert Giles,” he replied gravely, not sure of the breadth of subject matter the call was likely to cover.

“It’s... good to speak with you again so soon,” Robson said grimly. “I just wish it were under better circumstances.”

“You’re doing the Final Report on Kendra,” Giles surmised.

“Yes,” Robson acknowledged. “I’ve already spoken with Zabuto, but he couldn’t say much and most of that he learned from you or your Slayer. God in Heaven, Rupert! The whole point of sending her to you was to have two Slayers for a coordinated attack. What on Earth was she doing down there alone?”

“I wish I knew,” Giles replied honestly. “I never in a million years thought Kendra, of all people, would go out and attack a fortified position on her own initiative. I expected her to wait until we got back.”

“Back from where?” Robson asked.

“Yuma, Arizona,” Giles relpied evenly. He saw no advantage in being less than candid about his marriage. If Robson’s response was to immediately report it to the Council, he was in worse trouble than he had any reasonable way to handle in any case. “It was... a personal errand,” he explained, “but as it seriously impacts our work, I suppose you may as well know about it now.”

“Rupert,” Robson said worriedly, “what are you talking about?”

“I married her,” Giles replied simply.

“The... young lady you mentioned before?” Robson groped for clarification.

“The Slayer,” Giles acknowledged, “Buffy Summers. She is my wife.”

“Are you _mad_?!” Robson gasped.

“Some people have said so,” Giles admitted.

“Have you any idea what kind of position this puts me in! God! Of course you have! That’s why you’re involving me! A fine thing to do to an old friend!”

“I’m sorry, but from our earlier discussion I had thought you had some idea...”

“Of _this_!” Robson demanded incredulously. “It occurred to me actually, but I dismissed it as absurd! All manner of absurd possibilities occurred to me, a witch, a demon, an Ezarian even, but none so preposterous as _this_! To be honest, I thought you’d most likely gotten some schoolgirl pregnant.”

The deafening silence lasted for much too long a moment. “I have,” Giles admitted finally.

“Bloody Hell!” Robson shouted. “When we _discuss_ Council disciple on a _theoretical_ basis, we call _this_ the ‘Doomsday Scenario’!”

Giles made a noise between a sniff and a snort, “Round here, when the world is within 24 hours of coming to its end and we have to stop it, we call _that_ the ‘Doomsday Scenario.’”

“Don’t you dare take that superior, self-righteous tone with me Rupert Simon son of Andrew Patrick Giles!” Robson shouted. “You’re coming to me for help, asking me to intercede for you, to seek mercy for your transgressions! To risk my reputation and expend my own... power on your behalf! In exchange, you’re offering me what I already have, what you can’t hold if you wanted it, which I frankly doubt! You’ve mercilessly targeted me for this _opportunity_ to be of service because you know I am loathe to partake of anything taken by force regardless of the circumstances! You know this because I befriended you, opened up to you, at times in your life when no one else would! And now, you’ve found a use for this ancient knowledge, which you’ve filed away in true Weregelder fashion!” Robson paused for breath at last still fuming.

“You’re right,” Rupert said, chastened, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be... such a high handed beggar. I just... detest feeling as though I have to beg the Council, as ever, for some... authority over my own borrowed life.”

“Well that’s what we get for being born into a dynasty,” Robson said philosophically, already a great deal calmer for having said his piece, “even without a kingdom.”

“I think I could do with a kingdom,” Rupert joked, “the rents and profits would tend to make one’s obligations more bearable, and I’d have a parliament to do most of the work.”

“We should just tell the old girl we’re taking over,” Robson said with mock gravity. “It’s Seven to One after all.”

“Well then,” Rupert rejoined wryly, “it may take _less_ than a week.”

Robson laughed warmly at last. “Alright, old friend,” he said. “You know me too well. I’ll do what I can for you, for generational solidarity if nothing else. But don’t kid yourself here. They’ve got the guns _and_ the numbers, and when push comes to shove I’m not sticking my neck in the noose with yours if I can help it at all.”

“Fair enough,” Giles agreed. “I mostly need you to help keep the noose from getting too close to literal.” That much, at least, Robson seemed confident he could manage.

The two Watchers returned to the grim but expected business of burying another Slayer. “This other young lady,” Robson asked at length, “Ms. Rosenberg, who was present when Kendra was killed, she was... working with your Slayer? Practicing the dark arts on her behalf?”

“Yes,” Giles confirmed grimly. “She’s done several spells for us of late.”

“I understood that you were allowing a couple of students to assist you with regard to... research and the like,” said Robson, clearly struggling to understand the method to his madness, “But to allow these... school kids to become active participants in the Slayer’s work—to know her secrets, let alone share in her battles—seems very unwise.”

“I can’t say I entirely disagree,” Giles admitted, “Especially given everything that’s happened to them in the past twenty-four hours, but the truth is, Buffy doesn’t function terribly well without them. You see, she feels extremely socially isolated as it is. The life she led in Los Angeles... well it was quite different from what most Slayers are used to. She was the axis around which the social world of literally thousands of young people spun. To go from that to this grim, constant, thankless, anonymous struggle... I truly think that she is a better Slayer for being able to maintain a least a couple of real friendships of the kind that are not based on secrets and dishonesty. The loyalty, the willingness of her friends to leap into the fray when they see a need, I think is an important part of that. She needs to feel less... alone with her responsibilities.”

“But ultimately,” Robson pointed out, “she _is_ alone with her responsibilities. She is the Slayer. She and no one else, once again, incidentally. Involving her friends and family in her work can’t change that. Nor can... involving yourself in her life to the extent that you have.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” Giles argued, “but you don’t know Buffy as I do. Well, obviously. But I’ve seen her do things no other Slayer has ever done. And some of her greatest successes have come from acting in direct contravention of conventional practices and of my own instructions. I’m certain that supporting her in being the Slayer that she is is a better used of the Council’s resources and a better service to mankind than trying to... remake her fit the Handbook. Well but then, I don’t suppose you’ll take my opinion of her extraordinary merits very seriously at this point. I suppose every man thinks his own wife quite extraordinary.”

“At least for the first 24 hours of marriage,” Robson agreed, “but I think I still know you well enough, to give some credit to your opinions despite your obvious bias. The truth is, none of the rest of us has ever been able to make heads or tails out of how the girl does what she does, but there’s no denying she gets the job done. Killing the Master, closing the Hellmouth, defeating the Judge, and I believe she is the only human being ever to survive being targeted by the Order of Terroka. No, I won’t deny she’s a hell of a Slayer, however she does it.

“Still, I make no secret of my continued conviction that the last thing any Slayer needs is an active social life, let alone a husband and child, though I’ll grant that knowing what would be ideal very seldom tells us what to do about what is. I’ve promised to do what I can for you, and so I shall, but no action or inaction of the Council, however miraculous in its mercy, can remove the difficulties inherent in this set of circumstances.”

“Again,” Giles acknowledged, “I can’t really say I disagree. Especially if the Council are quite certain that no new Slayer has been called as a result of Kendra’s passing.”

“Unfortunately, we are,” Robson explained. “It appears that the Gaudencian Hypothesis was correct all along. It is the absence of a living Slayer, rather than the event of the Slayer’s death which causes a new Slayer to be called.”

“But how can you be so certain so soon?” Giles challenged, “After all, it took us nearly two weeks to locate Buffy. The bloody vampires had to lead us to her.”

Robson laughed. “That is literally verbatim what your father said.”

“Well that doesn’t _necessarily_ negate the point,” said Giles dryly. “Anyway, I doubt if he said it exactly like that.”

“There was quite a bit of difference in inflection and intonation,” Robson acknowledged. “He also prefaced it with a long explanation as to why the Chain of Calling Theory is infinitely more logical.”

“Either makes more sense than that ‘Event Process Theory’ most of the Council have been so wedded to of late,” Giles opined, “but that still begs the question, which is how do you _know_ there hasn’t been another Slayer called?”

“Well there is some confidential information involved but suffice it to say that enough sources have been consulted and provided clear and consistent information that—at least so far as the seven of us are concerned—the matter is entirely settled.”

Giles brooded a moment. It didn’t seem ‘settled’ to him in any sense, but for now it was what the Inner Council thought that mattered. In their eyes, Buffy was once again the one and only Slayer. On the one hand, that meant that they could ill afford to lose her cooperation, even for a short time. It meant she could demand quite a lot in the way of concessions for her family. It also meant that, if pushed, the Council might honestly feel they had no choice but to kill her.

An image forced itself upon Rupert’s memory: _A young woman, her dark hair hanging down across her pale face against the good green table cloth in the big dining room downstairs. Her cloudy green eyes looking through him at nothing_. _Her voice, singing, calling him, now silent. His father’s loud voice and angry eyes. “Hush, Child,” Grandmother says, “Go back to bed, it’s alright.”_ He pushed the recollection back where it had come from. Never saw it. Never heard it. Never say a word.

Of course, with Robson in their corner, they ought to have plenty of advanced warning before they were ever in danger of pushing the Council that far. To his knowledge, the Council had only ordered the outright execution of one Rogue Slayer in modern times, and that had been a process of literally years of neglected duty and spurned attempts at reconciliation. As stubborn as Buffy could be, he didn’t see her troubles with the Council ever getting to that point. Even if he were jailed or deported, even if she broke off contact with them as a result, he couldn’t see her turning her back on her duty. As long as she was keeping a lid on the Hellmouth, they’d be fools to prefer an untried novice in her place. Of course, that might be the effect of setting Travers upon her as Examiner, but they wouldn’t see it the same way. They’d see that as the action of fate, no matter how heavily Quentin pressed his thumb on the scale.

“Well,” said Robson, when he felt he’d waited long enough for Rupert to speak again, “let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? What, exactly, do you propose in terms of this... accommodation and what are you willing to accept in terms of discipline?”

****

“It’s starting to freak me out,” Buffy said, as they escaped to morning break at last, “how much these plays, like, parallel everything that goes on in my life.”

“Well don’t read the end of this one then,” Willow murmured.

“What?” Buffy asked.

“Nothing,” said Willow. “So... I gather the wedding did not go smoothly?”

“My _Dad_ showed up,” Buffy confirmed.

“In his nightgown with servants and torches?” Willow asked, evidently quoting the play.

“In a temper with Grampa Wallace and a Yuma County Sharif’s Deputy,” Buffy told her.

“Yikes,” said Willow.

“He had a postpartum Order of Custody and everything,” Buffy went on, seemingly quite serious. Willow didn’t know whether she was supposed to laugh or not. She could never tell with the vocabulary thing when Buffy was doing it on purpose and even when she knew she was, whether she was supposed to know it.

Willow wasn’t in much of a laughing mood anyway. She just wanted to go home and sleep, or maybe take another long hot shower. Or sit on an ice pack. All of this walking and sitting was a painful reminder besides being just plain painful. She had to keep reminding herself that she hadn’t _actually_ been raped. Alright, so she had some ugly purple bruises in a place she wouldn’t even want to show a doctor. So she had some even uglier memories of cold, dead fingers that definitely didn’t need (or want) an invitation. But still, if it wasn’t enough to disqualify someone for a virgin sacrifice, it couldn’t really be called ‘rape’. She was mostly having an emotional reaction to watching Spike murder Kendra, Willow decided. Scant minutes earlier, with those exact same hands. _‘...And all of them except some hundred score/Were almost as much virgins as before.’_

Willow felt Buffy stop, staring at her, eyes full of concern. “I’m listening,” she assured her, though she now realized she hadn’t been.

“Willow,” Buffy said seriously, “are you alright?” Willow nodded, forcing the corners of her mouth up a little. Willow’s extremely convincing semblance of a smile blazed up from a thousand watts to a million. Buffy knew better. Reflexively, she tried to smooth a motherly, comforting hand through Willows hair, but her friend shrugged her off, turning away.

Willow felt suddenly angry, humiliated, near tears. The way Buffy was fussing over her! It was like she saw her as a lost child or an injured bird, something in need of pity and delicate care. Like a rape victim, for example. At the same time... she didn’t need to feel Buffy touching her that way right now, in that gentle, affectionate way that isn’t meant to feel sexual but does. It made her feel dirty, creepy, the more so because Buffy didn’t know what she was doing. _She_ was innocent, even if she wasn’t a virgin.

“God, Buffy!” Willow said disgustedly, not aware of where her thoughts were going until the words came out, “How could you _let_ one of those _things_ —!” she couldn’t finish the sentence. She regretted having said that much. Buffy looked hurt, not surprisingly. “I’m sorry,” said Willow defensively, feeling judged for challenging Buffy on the propriety of vampire sex. “Let just... talk about something else, okay?”

Buffy heard tears in Willow’s voice and saw her take a Kleenex out of her purse to dab at her seemingly dry eyes. Not knowing how to react, she tried changing the subject, just as she’d been asked. She chose maternity shopping for a thousand. It seemed acceptable. They started walking again, out into the courtyard, towards the fountain.

“What I can’t figure,” she said, her tone of casual angst only a little forced, “is how every single thing I own is now suddenly tighter in the waist even though I haven’t gained a single ounce. I mean, I’ve actually lost like a pound and a half, but still, I had to lie down on the bed to zip this skirt.”

“Your uterus is expanding,” Willow explained, “it’s completely normal.”

“Well, that’d be a first for me,” Buffy joked.

“Well, it’s a completely normal part of being pregnant and secretly married in the eleventh grade, if that makes you feel any better,” Willow teased.

“Yes,” Buffy agreed in her cheerful deadpan, with an exaggerated nod of resolution, “much more comfortably weird. Much Buffier.”

“Hey,” said Oz, suddenly appearing around a corner. “You look like you’re feeling better,” he added to Willow, seeing the obvious joy written all over her face. “Did something good happen for once?”

Oz winced, biting his tongue to keep from screaming in agony, as Willow suddenly lunged into his arms and clung to him, sobbing. He looked to Buffy for an explanation, but she looked away, worried but also... withholding. “Let’s sit down,” he suggested, unable to keep all of the pain out of his voice. They sat on the edge of the fountain.

Oz put his arm around Willow and she leaned, not too painfully, against him. She wasn’t crying anymore. She looked like she never had. Something about her unnervingly bright smile... didn’t match. Suddenly, frighteningly he realized that she was using magic to literally hide her face. “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked finally.

“Oh, nothing much,” said Willow hurrying to speak before Buffy but trying to sound blasé at the same time. “Kendra’s dead, Xander’s in jail, Cordelia’s in the hospital and we think the new English teacher slept with Buffy’s husband.”

“Not recently,” Buffy felt compelled to add.

“So...” said Oz, “You guys have had a pretty big week then?”

“Sort of very,” Buffy acknowledged. She followed Willow’s lead on not saying anything to Oz about Spike, hoping she was just waiting to tell him in private, or maybe after the wolf moon. She pulled a thin gold chain out from under her collar and let him get a brief look at her two rings before slipping them back into her shirt. “I married Giles last night,” she explained, “but it’s like top secret, at least until he can trade the birthright of our unborn child to a seat on the Mystical Council of Watchers for the chance to not get shipped to Siberia or someplace.”

“How does the Water-buffalo fit in again?” Oz asked, his almost expression subtly to the amused side of blank.

“Well, we can’t all have normal, boring lives like yours,” said Buffy. “Which, speaking of, and not that we’re not glad to see you or anything, but what are you doing at school?”

“My Doctor said I should do things I do,” he lied, or at least exaggerated by a couple of weeks, “except for sudden movements and sustained, vigorous activity. You don’t breathe enough lying in bed all day. It’s not good. Why is Xander in jail?”

“For putting Cordelia in the hospital,” Willow answered, “Which he didn’t even.”

“Vampires,” Buffy clarified. “Our lawyer is straightening it out,” she opined confidently. “Our lawyer,” she repeated, suddenly giddy again. “I’m an ‘our’. With a lawyer. I may own real estate. I actually _miss_ him.” She added wonderingly, “We haven’t seen each other in like three hours almost.”

“Which is about as long as we all got to sleep this morning if you couldn’t guess,” Willow said tiredly.

“We had the reception at the Hellmouth,” Buffy explained, cheerfully sardonic. “The usual stuff... vampires... virgin sacrifice.... I smashed my ex’s bones with an ax and set them on fire. It was quite the party. You should have been.”

“So the whole ‘army of vampires’ thing is over with?” Oz asked.

“Pretty much,” Buffy agreed.

“And Angel’s dead?”

“Deader than ever,” said Buffy, her cheerfulness stretched more than a little thin.

“Well, that’s good at least,” Oz said. “Bad luck for Eric, though.”

“Eric...?” Buffy asked drawing a blank.

“He means creepy Frankenstein Eric,” Willow explained, “Eric Wiftler. The police picked him up this morning. He’s supposed to have been seen leaving the Bronze after another mass killing there last night. They’re calling him the ‘Sunnydale Butcher’.”

“Wait, what mass killing?” Buffy demanded, mildly incredulous. “Where was I?”

Willow shrugged. “Everybody’s talking about it. I heard in first period.”

“I heard at the gas station this morning,” Oz confirmed. “There were eight more girls killed. Not all our age. A couple of waitresses from the truck stop out on I8, three or four college girls.”

“So, not part of the whole virgin sacrifice deal?” Buffy mused.

“Not from what I heard,” Oz observed. He didn’t need to elaborate. They got it.

“The weird thing is,” Willow said, wanting to focus on any other aspect of the crime, “when they found them, there was a lot of, you know, ‘dust’ on the floor, so it seems like the vampires just... stayed there and waited for the Sun to come up. Pretty creepy of you ask me.”

“Maybe they passed out drunk,” Buffy suggested.

“Maybe,” said Willow doubtfully. “Either way, if the killing stops as soon as Eric is off the street...”

“...it looks like they got the right guy,” Buffy concluded. “God! Poor Eric!” Willow gave her a dubious look which was not natural at all with her glammed on smile.“Alright, I admit, he’s not the nicest guy in the world,” Buffy conceded, “and he shouldn’t have gotten as almost completely off as he did the last time, but he doesn’t deserve _this_. Twenty dead, dozens more missing? He’ll get the electric chair.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s bad,” Willow conceded, “but then there’s the whole he-tried-to-cut-Cordelia’s-head-off issue to consider. And it is pretty much a humans killing humans scenario at this point. That’s not exactly, you know, _unnatural_ evil.”

“It can be,” said Oz grimly.

“Especially if it’s for something that vampires did” Buffy agreed, “I mean, it’s like they have us killing each other now. And in some fake justice, scape-goaty, pretend-everything’s-okay-cause-we-got-the-bad-guy ritual deal. I feel like we should all have pitch forks and torches.”

“It’s a win for the demons,” Oz agreed, “But what do we do about it?”

“I don’t know,” Buffy admitted, “I think this might be more than even our lawyer can straighten out.”

“Keep thinking about it,” Oz advised. “I don’t mean to be rude,” he added, “but I need to talk to Willow alone. It’s kind of important.”

“I was just about to go get a snack anyway,” Buffy lied politely.

“Tell Giles I said congratulations,” Oz said, “and I’ll let him know in a month or two.”

****

“No, I... understand... completely,” Rupert was saying dejectedly. Gwendolyn strained to hear without walking close enough to his missing door to allow him to feel her presence or hear her footsteps.“I knew from the minute the... selection was made I’d ultimately have to deal with Quentin... on that issue, but I trust you understand my... concern. It’s not... I’m not questioning the... process itself, though I think she’s more than proved—Yes, I realize that... No, as I said, I completely understand.” They could only be discussing Cruciamentum. The pain in his voice spoke of divided loyalties. Adding to that the Slayer’s instinctive treatment of her as a hostile peer rather than an authority figure, Gwendolyn was certain they had developed the emotional intimacy and social parity of lovers regardless of whether they had completed the act itself.

Gwendolyn sucked thoughtfully at her pearls. Neither state of affairs would have surprised her. Rupert was capable of extraordinary acts of self-inflicted martyrdom, probably up to and including love without sex, but she knew well enough that he could be lead by his cock, like any man. His guilt would be about equally great, whether his desire was acted or unacted. She could work essentially the same angles.

“Thank you, Phillip,” Rupert was saying, “I appreciate your... assistance with this and your... discretion.” Phillip _Robson_? There would be no point in approaching any less a personage about a settled selection of Examiner. And they had been close at one time. But still, why on Earth would Rupert want to discuss defiling his Slayer with a member of the Inner Council? Especially one who was sitting in _his_ —Gwendolyn nearly sucked her pearls down her throat. She was only stunned for a moment and angry for half a moment more. She was not jealous at all, not really. She didn’t _want_ that anymore.

By the time Rupert excused himself and poked his head out to see who was making that awful choking noise she was recovering her equilibrium. So he had changed a little. No more than a natural mid-life progression. Breeding was a typical, cowardly, human response to the inevitability of death. It would hardly necessitate a change in approach. It might actually be easier. His guilt would run in more than one direction.

Then again, she realized, calming even further, she still didn’t know for a fact that they were breeding, or bonking for that matter. It was possible that Rupert had called his exalted friend solely to try and protect his beloved Slayer from being tested to destruction by his long time enemy, that it was only this breech of protocol for which he was asking for his discretion. Her plans remained the same.

The minute Giles saw Gwendolyn he was assaulted by the memory of their brief reunion the night before, together with all of the unpleasantness that had lead to their long ago separation. So she was definitely here to spy on him, and wasting no time about it. He wondered how much she’d heard. She couldn’t have been standing there more than five minutes. She’d have been in class. How long had it been since he’d said anything truly incriminating? Longer than that.

“Mr. Giles,” she said coolly, by way of greeting.

“Mrs. Post,” he said with a stiff nod, pseudo-cordially, following her lead in behaving as if they had never been more than colleagues. He didn’t know exactly how she planned to play the game, but he certainly wasn’t going to show sentimentality if she didn’t. It could be taken as weakness. Or worse, evidence of lingering affection.

“I wondered if I might have a word with you,” she said crisply, “about the situation here.”

“With regard to the... erm research tools available to your student’s?” he asked, mock innocently.

“No,” she said acerbically, “with regard to the very lax state of discipline and training that exists with your Slayer. Everyone in the Council is concerned about the reports we’ve been getting and frankly what I’ve seen in the last twelve hours has only deepened my concerns.”

“I thought you weren’t here on Council business,” he said dryly.

“Not _officially_ ,” she corrected him. “Officially, I’m assigned to tracking backup and long term research, which can be done in Sunnydale as well as anywhere.”

“And _unofficially_?” he prompted curtly.

“There are some who feel that your ‘Buffy’ needs to be taken more firmly in hand.” she explained. “A desire has been expressed that I... observe the situation and offer comment upon your capability of handling her.”

While he was professing that there was nothing about his handling of Buffy that he would not be delighted for the Council to observe, Giles considered her explanation of her presence. He was uncomfortably aware that it could be true. He’d have thought Robson might have mentioned her, but they’d had a lot to discuss. And of course, sending an unofficial observer to gather facts was the sort of thing a Standing Committee or other administrative body might do _before_ bringing a matter to the attention of the Inner Council.

He couldn’t honestly say that he was surprised by the idea that his field performance was being questioned. As much as he had withheld in his Reports, he had still had to include the fact of Buffy’s arrest and the charges against her. They were not the kind of charges that seemed to bear any logical relationship to fighting vampires and demons. Add that to the revelation of her affair with Angel in the process of explaining the defeat of the Judge and the murder of Jenny Calendar, and there was bound to be a lot of skepticism, particularly among the Permanent Staff of the Outer Council, about his ability to keep his Slayer in line.

Nevertheless, Giles had no doubt that (whatever the officially unofficial reason for her arrival in Sunnydale) Gwendolyn had actually been sent by his father to spy on him. It would be just typical of Andrew to use the Council to put this Harridan in his path though no goal of theirs was served by it. Would he tell her the truth or send her in blind? That’d depend on whether she was meant merely to gather information, or—as the particular choice of agent suggested—to harass, annoy, seduce or otherwise interfere with him. He had to suspend judgment, Giles decided, taking no action on the basis of a belief as to what she did or didn’t know. Mostly that meant politely avoiding giving Gwendolyn any information or advantage while appearing to be transparent and cooperative with her as a representative of the Council.

“Tell me,” she said snakily, “were you ever able to locate Mr. Zabuto’s Slayer, or has she absconded utterly from your temporary supervision.”

“Good Lord!” said Giles, horrified, “you haven’t heard?”

“Apparently not,” said Gwendolyn tersely.

“Kendra was killed last night,” he explained balefully.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said, modulating the emotional content of her response: regretful but not maudlin or excessively shocked, Watcherly, professional. “She... seemed like a fine young lady.” She had to fake being even a little shocked, though the girl’s death was news to her. Whatever else should one expect to happen to a not-quite-yearling Slayer? You might as well be shocked by a veal calf gone to slaughter.

“I thought Robson would have called you,” Rupert went on. He seemed innocently puzzled, but he was probably actually suspicious. Robson was obviously the Final Reporter, and therefore should have contacted Gwendolyn for an interview if he had known she was in town.

“He may not have realized that I’d arrived yet,” she said. “I suppose you let him know that I had no information on the matter.” Gwendolyn didn’t hold her breath as she waited for his response. She was good at not appearing tense. Quentin’s plans hadn’t called for Rupert to be in direct contact with the Inner Council. Of course, Robson’s not having been aware of her presence up to now might be explainable. He was a busy, important man. But if Rupert had mentioned her name to him, the game was up.

“Actually,” said Giles with deliberate coolness, “I didn’t think to mention you at all.”

“Well, I shall just have to copy him on my daily report then,” she said, just as coolly. “There’s no sense his expending any effort on an interview just to find I’ve no information.” She was good at not appearing relieved too.

They exchanged a few more appropriate, meaningless words about the brevity and value of life in general and dear Kendra’s in particular. Rupert seemed to be working up to telling her something and avoiding it at the same time. She hoped he wasn’t about to confess. That would take simply all of the fun out of toying with him, teasing him with the threat of her possible knowledge.

“Look,” he said at last, “you may as well know, because you're bound to hear soon enough. This school is rife with salacious rumors regarding my... association with Miss Summers.”

“Oh, dear,” said Gwendolyn dutifully concerned. These ‘rumors’ were clearly so widely credited that he felt the need to preempt them immediately, which given what she already knew, left her in very little doubt as to their truth. She watched him very carefully, secretly amused, testing her long unused ability to spot the subtle signs that he was lying to her: fiddling with small objects as an excuse for not sustaining eye contact, periods of excessively direct eye contact, his entirely too composed expression.

“To be honest,” he said, looking her in the eyes very squarely indeed before turning his undivided attention to his tie tack, “I haven’t done much to discourage them.”

“I don’t think I quite understand,” she said truthfully.

“You see,” he explained earnestly, “contrary to the Council’s previous impression, I’ve recently come to understand that the local officials here in Sunnydale—including our Principal Snyder— are quite aware of the prevalence of... unnatural forces here. In fact they are actively working to cover it up. And they feel threatened by... outsiders... digging into things. Now, that being the case, the less they know about what Buffy and I are really doing at night, “he concluded, cleaning his glasses in a way that spoke volumes about his nighttime activities and his desire to engage in them at that very moment, “the better.”

“No doubt,” Gwendolyn agreed neutrally.

“Yes, well, unfortunately,” he went on, giving her his forthright look again, “the popular theory regarding Buffy’s and my... erm nocturnal activities has gained a little _too_ much credence lately. It’s getting to the point that Buffy and I can’t be seen together during school hours. And this morning, Snyder actually threatened to give you my job.”

“I see,” Gwendolyn murmured, leavening her concern with a moderate amount of disapproval. Giles couldn’t tell if she actually believed his explanation of the situation. He really doubted it. Though she gave no indication of _disbelief_ , he wouldn’t expect her to. It almost didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop her from hearing the gossip. Acknowledging the talk and plausibly denying it was about the best he could do. At least, it foreclosed the opportunity for her to take the mere fact that there was talk as proof that he was trying to conceal something.

“These sorts of rumors,” said Mrs. Post distastefully, slightly scoldingly, “could lead to a criminal investigation, could they not?”

“In theory,” he admitted, not letting her see how apprehensive he was on that very issue.

“Perhaps it might be better, then,” She suggested, “If you did resign from the school now that the Council can continue to have a presence here... unofficially.”

She was trying to tempt him or test him in some way, Giles realized. But how, exactly? If he showed enthusiasm at the idea of resigning, would that indicate to her that he was actually guilty? If he resisted the idea, would that show that he didn’t trust another Watcher to control access to the Hellmouth? What would that indicate?

“It’s... a thought I hadn’t considered,” he said, noncommittally. “Naturally, when you make your recommendations, the Council can decide what ought to be done regarding my employment. I did take this position on their instructions, after all. I am, above all else, a Watcher.”

“Indeed, Mr. Giles,” said Mrs. Post, allowing a note of skepticism to be heard in her voice. “I’m sure that’s true.”

****

Buffy had agreed to avoid the library ‘as much as possible.’ By 9:52, eight minutes before third period, she felt like she had done that. She had been married for fifteen hours, during which her husband had barely laid a hand on her. In fact, they hadn’t made love in three whole days. Not that they could do _that_ much about it in eight minutes, but she just had to see him, that was all, to touch him, to hear his voice, to figure out if there was any way at all they could manage to get a few minutes of marital bliss going at lunch time.

But Giles was not alone in the library. Buffy stood at the door straining to hear as he discussed their relationship (or a highly fictionalized account of it anyway) with Gwendolyn Post. She caught enough to confirm that Mrs. Post _had_ heard the rumors, but if that was what the Council had sent her to investigate, she wasn’t letting on. She wasn’t acting much like a jealous ex either, more like a disapproving colleague. The way they spoke to each other, even when they were alone, was awfully formal for lovers, even in the extreme past tense. Then again, Giles was awfully good at being awfully formal. And he and Gwendolyn were evidently part of one big dysfunctional family, so it could just be their way of expressing their hostility.

‘Or I could just be a paranoid, obsessive wife who can’t get through one day of marriage without spying on her husband,’ Buffy chastised herself. It was only when she heard Gwendolyn’s stiffly polite, “Good day, Mr. Giles,” that she realized she’d lost the thread of the conversation. The lady Watcher’s square heals clicked decisively on the institutional flooring. Buffy stepped over to a random locker pretending to turn the combination until Mrs. Post was gone.

The first bell rang. So, five minutes. A lot could happen in five minutes. She’d once seen the Hemery High basket ball team come back from twelve points down to win a city wide tournament semi-final in four minutes and fifty-four seconds. But now Buffy was getting a text, from her mother, “News from Hal. Call ASAP!” Buffy hurried into the library. Since Hal had called Joyce, she assumed the news was about her case, not Xander’s. Either way, Giles would want to know about it.

“Buffy,” said Giles, mildly surprised, then slightly worried, “has something happened?” She handed him the phone to read then, unable to resist, stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. He leaned down to oblige her, but didn’t let it go beyond a quick peck. “We still have to be careful,” he warned. “There are very delicate negotiations in progress. Now would be an exceedingly bad time for... premature revelations.”

“It sounds like _Mrs_. is more than a little suspicious already,” Buffy pointed out.

“So, you heard that. Yes, she is. Very. But I assume her instructions are to clear any information through my father before going to the Council. As long as he still thinks there’s a chance of me coming to my senses, he’ll not let her say anything to cause a scandal. No, the Court records will become a problem before she does, but hopefully Robson will have the key players in line by then. Anyhow, it seems we have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Still,” said Buffy, dialing the number for the Gallery, “it’s going to be a huge pain in the ass having her around. She was a monster to me in class just now.”

“That’s odd,” said Giles, more amused and less sympathetic than Buffy thought he should be. “She said something very similar to me just now.”

“Well, she started it,” Buffy said, a little sulkily. Giles gave her a mildly reproachful look. He might have said more, but the phone was ringing.

“Hal just said, ‘get Buffy to court by eleven,’” Joyce explained, “He said something very strange is happening and it might be to our advantage.” He hadn’t said anything about Xander. That worried Buffy a little, but overall the message was one of hope. She would just have to go and see what there was to see.

****

“Harris!” the guard shouted, “your lawyer’s here.”

Xander sat up puzzled, “My what now?”

“Where’s _my_ lawyer?” Eric demanded.

“The log says ‘Hal Gaston for Alexander Harris’, that’s all I know,” the guard informed them impatiently. Buffy’s lawyer. Giles’ lawyer. Xander grinned. It was happening already. The cavalry was here. People who knew what to know were coming to straighten things out.

But if the cavalry was here, then here was apparently somewhere in the vicinity of Little Big Horn. “Kid,” Hal said, when he had finished explaining the extent of the charges and listened to Xander’s initial reaction of shock and disbelief, “you’re in a hell of a mess. There’s no point denying it. I’m going to do my best to help you out of it, and my best is usually pretty good, but we’re up against some heavy hitters, in a town that gives a whole new meaning to 'home cooking'. I just talked to the Prosecutor, and even he’s scared to death of these guys. The truth is on our side. The _evidence_ is mostly on our side. I just hope that’s enough.”

“Cordelia’s on our side,” Xander pointed out. “Isn’t that enough?”

Hal shook his head. “Not by itself. Her father has convinced the Prosecutor to file charges. She can’t drop them. Engels has to do it. Even assuming she can stand up to her father and testify truthfully—”

“Count on it,” Xander interjected, firmly.

“—if the jury chooses to disbelieve her, they could draw enough inferences from the medical records, your statements, and the crime scene reports to convict on all the charges.”

“Oh Man,” said Xander horrified. Hal wanted to tell him that at least he’d gotten Cordelia’s statement as insurance in case she changed her mind, but he knew that, despite the Constitution, the walls in this place had ears. He wanted to delay letting Chase know for sure what his daughter planned to say, to minimize his incentive to try and work on the poor girl.

“The arraignment’s set for eleven,” Hal said, “I’ll make a motion to transfer to Juvenile Court—which based on these charges and you being nine months from eighteen—is going to be denied. All we can do then is plead you not guilty, demand a Probable Cause Hearing and try to arrange a bond. Don’t get your hopes up there, though. I’d bet anything we’re talking high six figures. You’ll have to come up with at least ten percent of that to get you out.”

“So...” Xander joked nervously, “what you’re basically saying is don’t make any big plans for Spring Break.”

“Or summer vacation. Or next semester,” Hal confirmed grimly. “Criminal trials are being set for August right now, but that could get pushed back for one reason or another, especially with medical records being an issue. Even the Probable Cause hearing will be four to six weeks out, and no telling how it will go.”

“So, what does that mean?” Xander wanted to know. “Am I going over to JDC?”

“No,” Hal explained, “these are adult charges, so they have to keep you here. In segregation from the over eighteens, of course.”

“Wait just a minute!” Xander nearly choked, “you mean I might have to spend the next six _months_ locked in an eight by ten cell with _Eric Wiftler_? Jesus Christ! We’ll kill each other.”

“I strongly advise against it,” said Hal dryly. “This is still a death penalty state.”

“Oh, Man!” Xander repeated, agitated, desperate running his hands though his hair. “I gotta get out of here! What about Gi—?”

“I don’t think we need to discuss that here,” Hal cut in forcefully. “I’ll... look into potential funding sources, but for now, you’d just better plan on getting along with Eric.”

****

Giles couldn’t come with Buffy to court, obviously. He sent her with two signed blank checks: one for Hal, one for a bondsman. A third check for four thousand and change was made out to her mother for what she’d already paid Hal and for the table. “There’s fifty-two thousand dollars in the account,” he’d explained, “but that’s all the truly liquid assets we have, and we are perilously close to being without any income, so don’t spend more than ten thousand without calling me first.”Buffy nodded dutifully. The numbers were about two orders of magnitude higher than she was used to having to think about, but she guessed they had to be to deal with the things grownups had to deal with. That was where the having of a job was supposed to come in handy.

When they walked in the packed courtroom, the mood was angry. A deputy stood in the doorway with a hand-held metal detector, checking for weapons. Buffy did a quick mental inventory. She was pretty sure she was unarmed except for stakes, which passed undetected. There were six armed deputies along the rail that separated the business part of the courtroom from the audience. Xander sat in the jury box in a ridiculous orange jumpsuit, literally _chained_ to Eric Wiftler and a dozen other guys, laughing and joking, while the deputies glared at him severely.

“Don’t try to talk to him,” Hal warned coming along side Buffy and Joyce, “he’s in enough trouble already.” He took them into an empty jury room and explained the situation. “Engels isn’t here. He sent _Kathy_ to cover for him, but I don’t see how she can back out,” he said, handing Buffy and Joyce the paperwork and showing them where to sign. “Your signature isn’t strictly necessary anymore,” Hal told Joyce, “but they don’t need to know that.”

“So I’d be off court supervision, like today?” Buffy asked, pleasantly shocked, “like I don’t have a curfew and I can sleep wherever I want tonight?” Hal nodded. Joyce looked a little troubled but said nothing. “But why?” Buffy asked, “I mean, _good_ , obviously, but why?”

Hal shook his head, looking uneasy himself. “I wish I knew,” he said. “There’s... something _wrong_ with Engels, it’s like... his confidence in his own judgment is completely shattered. Which is why he’s letting Chase lead him around by the nose too I’m afraid.”

Now it was Buffy’s turn to be uneasy remembering the hex Willow had threatened to put on Engels. When Hal explained what he meant by ‘Chase leading him around by the nose,’ she felt downright ill. Hal read out a long list of amazingly serious charges, for which he explained that his rock bottom price would be a flat, nonrefundable $20,000. “But I’m only supposed to spend _ten_ ,” Buffy objected, “and that’s for bail and everything.”

Hal laughed. “Not for these charges it’s not.” Buffy looked at her mother doubtfully. It was more clear than ever that she owed it to Xander to make damn sure he got a good defense, but she was still having trouble with the idea of spending Giles’ money, especially so much more than he’d told her to.

“We don’t have time to call him,” Joyce observed, “court will start any minute.”

“Give me the ten thousand,” Hal advised, “I’ll square the rest with Rupert later.” With a mixture of gratitude and dread, Buffy wrote in the amount. Hal had made it clear when he took her case that he didn’t step in front of any judge for any reason without being paid first. She made out the second check, in the amount of her expected fines and costs, to her mother after Hal pointed out that it might be bad form to pay for a forgery conviction with what looked for all the world like a stolen check.

Xander’s case was among the first called. No dice on juvenile court. His trial was set for September, with a Probable Cause hearing in April. Kathy read her very thin arguments on bail from someone else’s notes while Hal pulled out all the stops, touting Xander’s clean record, deep roots in the community and willingness to comply with any conditions of release. The gavel banged on $500,000, practically speaking, a little over $50,000 cash. Xander’s father had to be removed from the courtroom for loudly demanding to know how he was to be expected to pay for that and hurling insults at Cordelia and her father. His hysterics seemed to further agitate the would-be lynch mob that had gathered to see the Sunnydale Butcher brought to justice. Mrs. Harris just sat there crying, too distraught even to be embarrassed. The sight of her tears sobered her son considerably. He sat through the rest of the proceedings quietly looking down at his chained hands in a very un-Xanderly fashion.

Buffy wondered if there was any chance they could come up with the money for Xander’s bond. The way Giles had referred to their ‘truly liquid’ assets implied that they had other assets of a more solid but ultimately accessible kind, which was consistent with her previous general impression and the fact that she was wearing tens of thousands of dollars in gold, silver and diamonds around her neck. It made a difference, Buffy realized, whether there was any chance of getting the fifty grand _back_ when everything was said and done. If not, she had trouble imaging Giles spending what six? nine? twelve? months worth of his hard earned and soon to be illuminated paychecks for five weeks of freedom, Xander’s or anyone else’s. Buffy tried not to think about it too hard. She’d just have to talk to Giles and see what she could do.

Most of the rest of the docket blended together, an endless repletion of ‘whatever it is, I didn’t do it.’ “I guess I’m the only guilty person here,” Buffy whispered, straight faced. Joyce gave her daughter a moderately stern look and shook her head, but she couldn’t hide a slight smile. The most pitiful sight of the day was the arraignment of Eric Wiftler. The papers would later describe him as ‘defiant,’ ‘emotionless’ and ‘hostile’. To Buffy he looked shocked still, scared speechless, and to be honest, maybe a little sullen as Kathy-the-traffic-court-lady haltingly informed the judge of the State’s intent to seek the death penalty. The quiet, excited murmur from the crowd was a mix of anguish, moral indignation, relief and blood thirsty anticipation. Eric’s mother gripped the back of the bench in front of her, her knuckles literally white, looking ill enough to pass out at any moment. His father stared at the middle distance in angry silence.

Finally, the show was over. The guards were leading the prisoners away when Hal rose and said, “Your honor I believe there is one more matter to come before the Court.”

“Oh yeah, it’s a juvenile case, I think,” Kathy confirmed, shuffling through her stack of otherwise manila folders and coming up with one in a distinctive bright yellow color. “Summers... Buffy?”

“For change of plea,” Hal explained. “I talked to Mark about this. I have the plea statements and Ms. Collier should have the Amended Petition and the Partial Motion to Dismiss.”

“Come forward,” said Judge Fondren with gentle gravity. Buffy suddenly felt oddly nervous considering how little was supposed to happen to her. Hal motioned for Joyce to come too. Most of the crowd had followed the prisoners out into the hallway for the chance to spend a minute or two shouting threats and insults at Eric, but there were still plenty of staring faces. For now, Buffy was the thing to stare at, the center of the three ring circus. Except for Judge Fondren, who was busy staring in disbelief at the paperwork. “I was _about_ to ask why you were in such a hurry to get this on the docket today,” he said, somewhere between amused, admiring and accusing. Hal just gave him his best mischievous smile.

The judge shook his head, put his serious face back on and began going through the prescribed procedures for accepting a juvenile plea. He asked Buffy a dozen questions, rhythmically, as from long use and frequent repetition, but also, seriously, like he meant them, like her answers mattered. Did she know what she was doing? What she was giving up? Was she acting of her own free will? Did she understand what she had done, accept responsibility for it? He was so solemn that she felt almost as if she should be saying ‘I do’ instead of ‘yes, Your Honor.’ But he finished with the oddly casual pronouncement, “I sentence you in accordance with the agreement; pay the clerk on your way out.” The ceremony was over. Buffy walk out of the courthouse a free woman.

“I’m telling you,” she said when she got to Willow’s house twenty minutes later, “It was that spell you did. Hal said the Prosecutor just... folded.” Willow’s face was pale, damaged and morose. Did that mean she was getting better or worse? Buffy hated to tell her what Hal had said about Xander’s case as it related to Engels broken will, but she needed to know.

“Oh God!”Willow wailed miserably, near blind panic, “this is all my fault! I have to find a way to break that spell!”

“Well, I think Cordelia’s dad should get some of the credit,” Buffy pointed out soothingly, “but the sooner the spell is broken, the sooner it’ll get fixed. You might want to get your lawyer over there and get yourself a plea deal first, though,” Buffy advised. “I’d still hate for you to be in way more trouble than me for something that’s all _my_ fault.”

“I can’t think about that!” Willow squawked, hurriedly searching through a pile of Amy’s books until she found the one she needed. “I deserve whatever I get. Or worse.”

“Okay, what’s the what?” Buffy said worriedly, taking the book from Willow’s hands. “I mean, clearly we have to fix this, but why suddenly so much guilt?”

“I talked to Oz today,” Willow said bleakly. Buffy waited patiently to hear something she didn’t know. “He warned me,” she said sardonically, “not to come to his house ever again because his parents, and half the town, _wrongly_ think that I’m an evil, dangerous witch.”

“Well they would be wrong,” Buffy pointed out, puzzled both at the warning and Willow’s reaction to it, “but why would they think that?”Willow tried to explain. She showed Buffy the article. “Burned at the stake?” she said incredulously, “For witchcraft? In 1962?” She was shocked. She was horrified. But she didn’t understand.

“Mom was there,” Willow persisted urgently. “She saw what they did, she must have.” Tears ran down Willow’s face, “She was eight years old, Buffy!”

“I don’t know what to say,” Buffy told her. “Willow, I’m so sorry.”And she was, but that wasn’t the point.

“They broke her.” Willow wailed, desperate to make her understand, “They broke her _heart_. It never worked right after. I know that now,” she went on railing and weeping, “and you’d think—I mean wouldn’t you think—that would be enough to know to understand, to forgive her, to _love_ her?!! I mean wouldn’t you?! What’s wrong with me that when I look at her and I think about what they did to her, what they took from her; all I want to say is ‘You weren’t there! You weren’t there when I needed you!’? Alright, so maybe it wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t help it. But that doesn’t make it okay! She’s my Mom! She’s supposed to love me! She’s supposed to _make_ it okay!!!”

Willow was sobbing harder now, in danger of hyperventilating. Buffy patted her hand finding nothing to say. Guilt and inner turmoil must be contagious. She pictured her own child, fifteen or twenty years down the road, scarred and screaming, denouncing her for her early, violent death. She’d just have to exceed expectations, Buffy decided. If Erminetrude What’s-her-name could live to be forty-something, then so could she. She just had to be a better Slayer.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” she lied soothingly to Willow, “You’re going to be okay.” But she knew her friend needed help fast. What she didn’t know was who, if anyone could help her. Her problems were not the kind you could talk about with the school psychologist. They weren’t the kind you could sooth away with a pat on the hand either. Giles would know what to do Buffy told herself. He hadn’t stopped being older and wiser just because he was also her husband. She looked up at the clock on the wall. It was 3:05. Giles had promised to be home by four to ‘celebrate her freedom properly.’ Buffy really, _really_ wanted to be there, but Willow didn’t need to be left alone right now. With Xander, Cordelia and Oz out of action, Buffy was it. “Hey,” she said when the crying quieted a little, “Why don’t you come to dinner? We’re helping Mom celebrate her new dining table. She says it seats eight. ”

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” Willow protested unconvincingly. She sounded drained, resigned. “I’m fine. I just... got a little upset.” She tried to smile, “see, all better.”

“Well, come as a favor to me, then,” Buffy begged. “Aunt Darlene is coming and bringing my cousin Aaron, who is a total brat, mainly to get Grampa Wallace, but they’re staying for dinner to ‘meet by new husband.’ I need at least one non-relative there to keep everyone from being too mean to Giles.”

Willow gave her a skeptical look. “You’re having relatives over? With a dead body in the house?”

“Yeah,” Buffy acknowledged, “so I need plenty of friends ready to keep them busy and create amusing distractions. It’ll be fun. Like we’re in a sitcom or something.”

“Well, okay,” Willow agreed, “if you really need me, I’ll come, but you have to help me work on this spell problem tomorrow. In the meantime, _I’ll_ bail Xander out—don’t argue, I have the money—and if there’s time... I’ll try to work something out for myself. Come on.” She said resolutely, “No sense letting him spend another night in there. You be Mom this time,” she added, waving a hand before her face that left it bright and shining with joy, “I’ll be Willow.”

****

Giles closed the library five minutes early so that he could be home exactly at four. His heart was racing, his steps were light. He hardly felt tired at all. When he found the door still locked and the light blinking on the answering machine, when he heard Buffy’s message, sending her regrets, he felt very tired indeed. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Given his need for sleep, satisfaction delayed was likely to be satisfaction denied. Still, it seemed as though it couldn’t be helped. The news about Willow was very worrying. He was relieved that a solution had been found to the problem of Xander’s bail at least, but he’d prefer if it hadn’t involved robbing a defenseless woman of fifty thousand dollars.

Not having much else useful to do, he dug into his books and started looking for ways to resurrect Sheila Rosenberg whether anyone wanted her or not. The only thing he could come up with that might not destroy Willow was Arashon’s Awakening, but the stars wouldn’t be properly aligned for that until October of the year two-thousand. Reluctantly, he came to a conclusion. There was nothing he could do to help Sheila. The problem didn’t lie with Sheila or with Amy or with the County Prosecutor. The problem was Willow’s and only she could solve it. If she didn’t find a way soon to love and forgive and stop using magic to neutralize those who had power over her, she was in danger of becoming a very bad witch indeed. On top of everything else she had lived through in the past month, going down that path could be the end of her. That being the case, _he_ had to be a better moral influence and to prevail upon Buffy and the others to do the same. They must stop encouraging Willow to use magic, however expedient it might be.

Giles arrived at Joyce’s a little before six. She was in the kitchen cooking. Wallace let him in. He filled the old man in on the latest about Xander and a little related background on Willow and Oz, minus the fate of Sheila Rosenberg, while they dutifully admired the beautiful polished oak dining table that Joyce had bought from the antique dealer across from her Gallery. “Don’t leave tonight,” Wallace said out of nowhere. “Joyce isn’t ready for Buffy to go, and it’s not right to leave her here alone with that girl’s body, not when she feels like she does. I’d stay myself,” he added, “but Darlene is having a fit, silly girl, and she does an awful lot for me.”

Giles went home and threw a few clothes and books into a box. When he got back, Buffy and Willow were being regaled with Wallace’s surprisingly fond memories of the Great Depression and the Second World War. “Let me help you with that stuff,” Buffy offered, relieving him of his modest burden for the transparent purpose of getting him alone upstairs for a moment. “Are we seriously staying here another night?” she asked when they got to her room.

“I think we should,” Giles said seriously, “At least until Zabuto comes to claim Kendra’s body. Besides,” he pointed out, “things probably are moving a bit fast for your mother. This time last week she was still expecting to have you here another year and a half at least, and this morning we were moving out in April. Let’s stay tonight and play tomorrow by ear,” he suggested, “then we can sort through your things and get you properly moved in this weekend.”

“I’m more interested in getting properly... ‘moved in’” Buffy complained, knowing he was right.

Giles smiled and pulled her to him. “Believe me,” he murmured into her hair, his hands roaming over her body, “I’m dying to be of assistance, but we have rather a full house downstairs, and your aunt will be here any minute.”

“Ahwmm,” Buffy whined plaintively, “why do other people have to exist all the time? I wish we could just put the rest or the world on pause for about twenty or thirty minutes.”

“Bite your tongue,” Giles warned more serious than joking, raising and almost wagging a finger at her. Buffy felt slightly chastened, knowing what he meant. That way lay Sheila Rosenberg. Regretfully, disentangling all but a pair of hands, the newlyweds headed downstairs.

“I was beginning to think we’d have to send up a search party,” Wallace said dryly.

“But not a man among us was brave enough to attempt it!” Xander declared walking in from the dining room.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Giles asked, a bit too sharply. Buffy gave him a look. “Not that you aren’t perfectly welcome, of course, but... I’d have thought your parents would be anxious to have you home.”

“I stopped by,” he said casually, “but they already ate. Anyway Buffy’s mom is a better cook. Plus the floor show should be first class entertainment. ” Giles bore Xander’s humor politely enough that he didn’t realize he was giving any offense. Buffy could see why Giles, being Giles, was annoyed with him, but she was glad to have his lighthearted, friendly teasing as an antidote to Wallace’s passive aggressive wit. He also gave Wallace someone else to entertain, which left him less free to focus on Giles. Still, by the time the doorbell rang, it came as such a relief that Buffy literally jumped up to answer it.

Aunt Darlene hugged Buffy and gave her an affectionately disapproving look. Her little boy, Aaron, was now shockingly big, being no longer twelve, but thirteen. Darlene’s eye fell first on Xander, sitting on the couch with Grampa Wallace, rather than on Giles who was seated by the fireplace off to the side of the main gathering. “Hello,” she said with a mixture of pleasant shock and residual disapproval. “You must be Rupert!”

“You can’t make me!” Xander Quipped, shaking the hand she extended.

“Honestly,” Darlene chided Wallace, not catching on, “the way you talked I thought he’d be forty! I’ll bet he’s not a day over twenty-five! Which is still too old,” she admonished Buffy.

Buffy smiled weakly. “That’s not my husband,” she explained a little apologetically, as Giles came and stood beside her. “This is my husband.”

“Rupert Giles,” said a much older gentleman with a British accent and an air of... something between sophistication and self-importance.”

“Giles,” said Buffy politely, “this is my aunt, Darlene Lewis, and my cousin, Aaron.”

“Oh my _God_!” Aaron said, making a disgusted face, “ _Damn_ you’re old!”

“Language!” Darlene hissed, though she had been thinking exactly the same thing. She found herself off balance shaking the man’s hand out of sheer embarrassment.

“I’m afraid we get that a lot,” he half apologized, being unnervingly affable.

“Yes, and it’s in no way childish and annoying,” Buffy added with mock cheerful sarcasm, addressing herself primarily to Aaron.

“He is a child,” Giles reminded her tersely. Suddenly seeming a bit unnerved himself.

“Says you!” Aaron declared.

“Yes, well,” Giles said, “Please have a seat. I’ll go and see if dinner is almost ready.”

“I’m taller than you,” Aaron said to Buffy as if _that_ was the issue.

Buffy just sighed and rolled her eyes. “You’re a brat is what you are,” she said when Giles was out of the room. Aaron stuck out his tongue. “Whatever,” said Buffy with a dismissive flick of her wrist. Darlene sat, grim-faced, shaking with indignation, ignoring both kids, trying to have a whispered argument with Wallace, who was ignoring her in turn.

“Say, I have a Fun Idea!” said Willow with forced cheerfulness. “Why don’t we all go around the room and introduce ourselves and say one thing that’s interesting about us. I’ll go first. I’m Willow. I go to school with Buffy and I like to chat on the internet with people in other countries. See, like that.”

“I’m Xander,” Xander said obligingly, “I also go to school with Buffy. I enjoy cozy fireside chats, long walks on the beach, and unspeakably awkward family dinners with other people’s families.”

Darlene looked like she might literally faint, but everyone else laughed, though some a little nervously. “I think the rest of us know each other,” Wallace pointed out grinning.

“I’m Aaron,” Aaron piped up cheerfully, not knowing when the sport was past the best, “and unlike my cousin Buffy, I don’t like _doing it_ with people Grandpa’s age!” Indignant, Buffy looked at Darlene expectantly but this time no words of reproach were forthcoming.

“That’s enough!” Wallace said to the boy sternly. “Every single person here is old enough to know better than to be rude when you have guests or are a guest in someone’s house,” he added, giving Buffy and Darlene each a pointed look of her very own.

Giles stepped back into the room clearing his throat. “Dinner is ready,” he said acerbically, “if you’ll all please join us in the dining room.”

****

“How is he?” Constance Osborne asked her brother worriedly. She was holding a thermometer to the one spot on her husband’s face that wasn’t covered in gauze bandages.

“He is finally asleep... or at least... he’s unconscious,” Ken informed her grimly. “Other than that... I’d have called an ambulance already if he was... presentable. He’s chained sitting up against the wall with the oxygen mask strapped on now, so at least he can breathe a little better, but the lung is definitely punctured again. How’s Jonah?”

“His fever’s still going up fast, 102.4 now. The Tylenol didn’t help. How’s your hand?”

“Still bitten,” Ken said with a show of indifference that might have convinced anyone but his sister, “it’s not bleeding anymore. Those claw wounds are deep.” He noted changing the subject. “They need stitches. You’d better get him to the ER. I can stay with Danny.”

“What if he wakes up again?” Constance asked gravely.

Ken shrugged. “I’m more worried he’ll stop breathing.”

“I’m sorry,” Constance said, “about your hand.”

Her bother laughed. “It was my kid who started all the trouble, remember?”

“How soon does it start?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Most people say the next month, but Jordy got bit on a first night and turned the third. We have to assume I’m out of action Friday, chained up, just to be safe.”

****

“And you thought your family was tough,” Buffy teased when they were alone in her room again at last.

Giles laughed. “You haven’t _met_ my ‘family.’ That was a Sunday picnic.”

“It seems like I might have met one of them.” Buffy said, managing to sound fairly casual. Giles shrugged making a small, noncommittal noise. Buffy wanted a more definitive response, but she was too embarrassed to fish for it. Also, she could think of better ways to spend her evening than discussing her paranoid fantasies about Mrs. Post.

“Well,” she pointed out, putting her arms around Giles’ waist and snuggling against his back “my wonderfully pleasant relatives have gone back to L.A., Xander’s gone home to his loving parents and Mom and Willow are downstairs watching TV really, really loud. Does that give you any ideas about what might happen next?”

Giles sighed and turned towards Buffy, taking her hands in his. “I’m tired!” he pleaded, at once apologetic and defensive. “I’ve literally only slept ten hours this week and it’s Wednesday night. As soon as I lie down, I’m liable to pass out from the sheer delight of being horizontal. It’s only eight-thirty” he pointed out, seeing how disappointed she was, “I’ll probably be up by four or five and we can... take our time getting ready for school.”

“I am tired,” Buffy admitted. “In fact, I’m thinking of skipping patrol if that’s alright.”

“I think that would be very wise,” Giles advised. “The vampires are scattered and panicked now, but they won’t be for long, especially Spike. I think we’d best both recharge while we have the opportunity.” But as she lay there in the darkness, wrapped in his warm, strong arms, Buffy felt restless, agitated, far from sleep. His snoring against the back of her neck didn’t help. She shifted positions, trying to ‘accidentally’ wake him up so that he might quit snoring or at least roll over. It didn’t work. She got up and got dressed. It was a little before ten. The house was dark and quiet.

Although she could have walked out the front door, Buffy climbed out the window and down the old familiar tree for what she suddenly realized might be the very last time. She decided to go for a moonlight jog in Weatherly Park, just to burn off some energy, just to see what she could find. No vampires were in evidence, and thankfully, no werewolves. She decided to go home and try sleeping again. Up the tree, in through the widow. It was easier than the door really. She didn’t have to try and remember her keys.

Giles wasn’t snoring anymore. He was breathing deep and evenly lying on his stomach. In the dead center of the already not quite big enough bed. He stirred a little as she shoved him toward the wall to make room. “’sit morning already?” he murmured groggily.

“No,” Buffy yawned. “It’s just after midnight. Go back to sleep.”

“Mmm,” he murmured, snuggling against her, “actually, I’m feeling a little better now if you want to...”

“Well now _I’m_ tired,” Buffy retorted, though she didn’t feel the least bit like sleeping.

Giles sighed, and almost sat up before he remembered there wasn’t room. He propped himself on his side facing her. “What’s bothering you, specifically,” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Buffy sullenly, facing him with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Brilliant,” he said, getting a little exasperated himself. “Let’s lie here and sulk all night, shall we? That’s so much more productive than sleep or sex or talking to one another.”

“You’ll think it’s stupid,” Buffy said sulkily. “I think it’s stupid.”

“Well if it is I shall tell you so and we’ll both have a good laugh,” he said. “Come on, I won’t have you stewing all night over something that can easily be cleared up, as most things can, now let’s hear it.”

“Are you related to Gwendolyn Post?” Buffy asked. A straight answer to her oblique question would have amounted to a lie.

“Not closely enough to make any difference,” Giles admitted. “Except perhaps to a medieval divorce court. I lived with her from 1974 to 1978. For the last three years of that, we were engaged to be married. I broke it off a couple of months before the appointed day and ever since we’ve avoided each other when can and tried to be polite when we can’t.”

“Oh,” Buffy mumbled sullenly. “Is that all.”

Giles sighed. “I’ve lived for forty-seven years, Buffy,” he tried to explain, “Every single one of them at least 365 days long. It wasn’t _all_ wild parties and depraved group sex. I have had other serious relationships.”

“Were you in love with her?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he answered truthfully. “I tried very hard to convince myself that I was, but to be honest it started as mostly a combination of attraction and convenience and then sort of... developed its own inertia. She was one of the Travers Set, you see, so it was a match made in purgatory, I suppose. And my father approved of her, her family at any rate.” He hesitated a moment, trying to address Buffy’s precise concerns, or what he imagined them to be. “I never intended to... keep this from you. There just... hasn’t been a terribly appropriate moment to bring it up.”

“Unless you count that time four hours ago when I just about asked you about it,” Buffy pointed out. “Or last night when you introduced us and we spent like three minutes discussing her marital status. Those might have been a good times.”

“Alright,” he conceded, “they might have. Can’t I just admit fault and plead for mercy?”

The look in his eyes was so endearingly pitiful, so much the look of a slightly guilty Giles. Buffy shook her head and gave him the gravest look she could manage, “No mercy for you,” she said. “You have to do penance.”

He wrapped his arms and legs around her laughing with relief. “Hail, Buffy, full of Grace,” he cried, “blessed art thou among women!” She giggled back and responded to his caresses in kind, feeling relieved. Not that she was glad to learn that her husband really had boinked her least favorite teacher, but she was glad to know she hadn’t totally lost her senses and started imagining things. Besides, his denials of love for the horrid woman were pretty convincing. And the fact that they _could_ discuss his rather extensive past, that he was becoming less defensive about opening up to her, was sort of a relief in itself. Not that she wanted to sit down and go through it all blow by blow, so to speak, especially since it sounded like he was only partly joking about the whole ‘depraved group sex’ thing; but he could tell her anything she wanted or needed to know, and that made her feel more like a wife and less like a junior partner.

They made love together in her tiny bed, slowly, passionately, face to face, not worried about checking anything off the list of untried positions. They fell asleep in each other’s arms. They woke up in each other’s arms. And the evening and the morning were the second day.

 


	8. The Left Hand of Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Law is the good right hand of Justice. But sometimes a more sin--erm... 'subtle' approach is necessary to set things right. Especially in Sunnydale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II: The Lesser Light

For the first time in a very long time Joyce awoke to the rich inviting smell of coffee brewing and the sound of a man singing in her kitchen. “♫ You must remember this, A kiss is still a kiss...♪” She could hear Buffy giggling happily, telling her husband where to find the spatula and how she liked her eggs. It was surreal. It was a quarter to seven. Sighing, feeling extremely old and irrelevant, very much like a mother-in-law, she showered and dressed in something less than a hurry. Nevertheless, she made it downstairs in time to see the singing librarian straighten his tie and kiss her daughter goodbye at the door to the garage. It was very much the kiss of two newlyweds who don’t realize anyone else is around. This despite the fact that Willow was sitting at the kitchen counter politely focusing her attention on her omelet.

Joyce poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down next to her. She seemed some better for having spent the night among friends. Her face was neither a magical mask nor a portrait of horror and pain, though she did look very tired and anxious. Buffy closed the door and joined them, beaming. “You know, eggs might be literally the most perfect food ever invented,” she declared, loading her plate. “They’re compact, easy to store, and fit perfectly in your hand; they cook fast, like fifty different ways; they taste good on their own or mixed with anything else; and to top it all off, they’re full of protein that gives you energy and pep!” Willow and Joyce exchanged the sympathetic look of single, depressed people everywhere who have to put up with the enthusiasm of cheerful newlyweds.

“What time is Mr. Zabuto supposed to be here?” Joyce asked tiredly. As annoyed as she’d thought she was at Buffy’s cheerfulness, she felt guilt and regret to see it suddenly flagging in the face of objective reality.

“His flight get’s in at three,” Buffy said grimly. “Giles is going to pick him up. They should be here around three-thirty.”

“What are they going to do with her?” Willow asked.

“They’re taking her back to her parents,” Buffy said. “Apparently the Council is fixing things with Customs or whoever so it looks like she died in an accident.”

“Those poor people!” Joyce said. “Will they even tell them why their daughter is dead?”

“They already know,” Buffy said. “They sent her to Zabuto when she was like two or three years old. A seer or something told them she was going to be the Slayer. Apparently, that’s how it works in some countries. God can you imagine?!”

“No,” said Joyce, “I honestly can’t.”

Buffy squeezed Joyce’s hand. “I’m glad you’re my mom,” she said. Willow looked troubled, and Buffy looked worried in response. Joyce knew that things had been strained between Willow and her mother since her father’s death. That she’d felt the need to seek comfort and safety elsewhere after whatever the vampires had done to her seemed like a very bad sign. She was tempted to try to talk to Sheila about the situation, but it wasn’t really her place to get in the middle of their family business, and if Sheila saw it that way, it might only make things worse. Still, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she was being a party to keeping Dr. Rosenberg in the dark regarding facts of her daughter’s life that she really needed to know.

“I have to check my messages,” Willow said abruptly standing and turning away, “Oz might have called.” She walking over to the wall mounted phone and fumbling with the buttons for a good thirty seconds before she managed to dial her own number. He hadn’t.

“I could try calling his parents if you’d like,” Joyce offered. She had gathered that Willow had somehow become persona non grata at the home of the _werewolf_ she was seeing either because she was a witch, or a juvenile delinquent or a close friend of the accused rapist who had beaten him within an inch of his life. Normally, she wouldn’t have offered to get in the middle of _that_ family situation either, but Willow had enough worries without being kept in suspense as to Oz’s fate.

“Thanks,” Willow said, “but try to talk to him yourself. His parents don’t want anyone to know he’s a werewolf and if they think you know, they’ll know you know me. Either way, they’ll probably just tell you he’s fine.” Joyce verbalized agreement though ‘fine’ or ‘dead’ was all the answer she figured she’d get no matter who she talked to. She shouldn’t have to make reference to his affliction to know that. They needn’t have bothered discussing it. The Osbornes let the machine pick up. Joyce didn’t see the point of leaving a message. “I’ll keep trying,” she assured Willow, “I’ll text Buffy as soon as I know anything.”

****

“I have to go,” Constance whispered. “I should have gone before now.”

Jonah gripped her hand tighter, refusing to let her go, forcing her to look in his eyes. “He’s not our son,” he said with quiet intensity, “that... thing is not Danny.”

“Of course he is,” Constance argued. “He’s been like this since February and he’s the same as he ever was. It’s just... like a sickness. We just have to adjust.”

“No!” Jonah insisted fiercely, his grip becoming painfully tight, “listen to me! I looked in its eyes! I looked and I saw! It’s a demon Connie! That thing is the spawn of Satan!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Constance rebuked him. “You sound like your father!”

Jonah was silent for a moment. “Maybe he was right about a few things,” he said quietly.

Constance stood and forcefully pulled her hand from his. “If you really believe that,” she said bitterly, “don’t come home, not while I’m still there.”

“Connie!” her husband cried desperately, clawing at her arm again, tearing her skin, tearing her heart. She shook him away and walked quickly towards the door.

“We’ll be out as soon as we can find a place,” she said, making her voice as businesslike as possible, “by next month regardless.”

Jonah turned and faced the wall. Constance left, closing more doors than one.

****

Willow spent most of first period repeatedly checking her email, but there was no word. Snyder never showed up at all, so she let everyone work on whatever they wanted. She couldn’t quite manage to care whether they learned anything or not. On the way to second period, Buffy confirmed that there was still no word on Oz. “I could go by and check,” Xander joked glumly, “I’m sure they’d let _me_ in.” As they walked down the hall, students whispered and gave them a wide berth, avoiding eye contact. On the plus side, even though they walked into Mrs. Post’s class just as the second bell was ringing no one had dared to take their table.

“ _Miss_ Summers,” good old cousin Gwendolyn started in before they even got a chance to sit down, “how nice of you and your... friends to join us.”

“It was no trouble,” said Buffy, smiling and tilting her head sarcastically, “we were in the neighborhood.” Now that detention was no longer a ticket to Detention, Buffy felt a lot more free to let Gwendolyn know she wasn’t going to be pushed around.

“Othello,” the teacher said with icy dignity, “I assume you’ve read it by now.

Buffy shrugged, “More or less,” she said, though she’d actually only had Willow tell her about it. “It’s the one where Iago (this evil, jealous, conniving snake that’s supposed to be a soldier) spends all his time plotting to destroy Othello (who’s fifty times the warrior he is) even though there’s a war going on and they’re supposed to be on the same side, apparently because of a grudge over some personal crap that happened like a million years earlier.”

“Some people say it was Othello’s choice in a wife that was his undoing, as he was certainly hers,” Gwendolyn rejoined coolly. So, she was ready to play.

“I thought it was the fact that the whole cast are morons who believe all the gossip they hear,” Buffy countered, still smiling. That got the class’s attention. They may not have known exactly what was going on, but they knew it was personal.

“Perhaps it was because Iago knew Othello so much better than Desdemona,” Gwendolyn parried. “He could play a cord on the old man’s insecurities, plucking strings the poor child never knew where there.” There was a modest amount of startled murmuring. Some of the sharper members of the studio audience had caught up enough to play along.

“Is she that young?” Buffy asked, refusing the bait, “I guess that depends on who you cast in the role. I mean, her _father_ talks like she’s a kid, but fathers don’t always know best, do they?” Gwendolyn smiled. So that was what they thought. Whatever her foul deeds, Andrew Giles was to have the blame. Even if they learned that she was no longer a Watcher, they would not suspect who had really sent her. Then she might as well play all the more the villain. Travers would be pleased to hear it, which could only be to her advantage. As for Buffy, though she refused to cast herself as the romantic lead ‘by the light of heaven,’ Gwendolyn knew well enough what the girl would do in the dark. Rupert hadn’t slept at home the past two nights.

“Well,” she deflected, having had enough of the fencing match, pleased with what she had learned and sure that she had revealed nothing important to anyone who mattered, “I think a little quiz will help sort out who has read more of the text and who has read less.”

****

Even without the pain and heaviness in his chest, Oz would have known from his mother’s pale and worried face that something was terribly wrong. There was blood all over the floor, and just a little splattered on the walls and ceiling. “Where’s Dad?” he gasped.

His mother smiled nervously. “He in the hospital,” she said. There was more that she wasn’t saying. Something that bothered her a lot.

“Where in the hospital?” Oz asked, managing a little more than a whisper.

“Not in the basement,” his mother assured him. She knew her son’s mind. “It’s just a scratch,” she added insistently. Oz gave her his best skeptical look, leading her eyes along the blood trails with his. “Alright, a dozen very deep scratches,” his mother admitted crossly. “He’ll live, and so will you. Uncle Ken’ll be back later,” she added, hiding her face by walking across the room to fuss with something on his dresser, near tears. “He just went home make sure Jordy got off to school alright, check on Aunt Maureen and take a nap.”

Oz had an odd feeling that there was a very good reason why Mom was bringing up Uncle Ken at this particular point in this particular conversation. “What?” he asked quietly.

His mother turned and looked at him, literally with tears in her eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “We all just have to live through the next two days.”

Oh. No wonder she was upset, Oz realized. Her son was dying. His lung was collapsed, he probably had blood clots everywhere and he was eight hours away from violent convulsions that even a potentially fatal dose of tranquilizers wouldn’t be enough to control completely. If he somehow managed to survive the night, he still had one more to go, and here she was having to comfort him and pretend everything was okay. 

Oz smiled at his mother. He wanted to comfort her back, but even the little bit of talking he’d done so far had been very taxing and hadn’t seemed to accomplish much. The smile was enough. Mom walked over and sat down in the chair next to his bed. She reached out and took his hand. They sat that way until Ken and Maureen arrived, not saying anything at all.

When Mom went into the other room to talk to the grownups about his being almost done living, Oz started to call Willow, to leave her a message. But before the machine answered, he heard his door knob turning and had to hang up. It was all three of them. 

“Danny,” Uncle Ken said, taking the lead, the two women looking grave and supportive, “we need to talk.” Ken was wearing his jacket indoors. He had his hands in his pockets. Something about the way he held them there was so secretive that it made Oz wonder if he had a weapon, a syringe of poison maybe. But if they’d decided he was better off dead than trying to make it through another night, they were getting a pretty early start. Oz sat up a little straighter, willing to hear them out.

“We can’t make it through another night like last night,” Uncle Ken said. “If we took you to a doctor, they’d take you to a hospital and then they’d want to keep you overnight. If I give you half as many tranqs as last night, it’ll probably kill you, and if I don’t, you’ll tear yourself apart. Your dad won’t be home in time to help us, and Maureen usually needs me to help with Jordy on a true full moon, but I can’t leave your mother here alone with you. I won’t.”

“If you’re here to kill me,” Oz said, grimacing with the effort of so much speech, “I can’t stop you.”

“Oh, Danny, no!” his mother gasped.

“We want to help you,” Ken explained, “but we’re running out of options. We want to try something desperate.”

“Your father’s not here,” Aunt Maureen said, “so the vote was unanimous, even if we do all feel two ways about it.”

“There’s no other choice,” his mother agreed. “We want you to call her, Danny. We want you to call your witch.”

****

Willow was shocked by the premeditated cruelty of Mrs. Post’s idea of a pop quiz. There were things on this test _she_ didn’t know, questions like ‘Discuss the relation of the metaphorical device used in Act IV Scene ii Lines 91 and 92 to the sustained conceit used by the same speaker throughout the scene.’ Of course, the only speaker who used a sustained conceit in that scene was Othello, who continually referred to his wife’s servant as her bawd, calling his wife a whore. Beyond that there wasn’t a lot of metaphorical imagery accept for one reference to—Willow gasped. Though she couldn’t vouch for the line numbers, she knew the words: ‘You mistress, that have the office opposite to St. Peter and keeps the gate of Hell.’ 

It was a well written question, at once unmistakably directed at Buffy and at the same time designed to let her know that the ‘gate’ in question was not necessarily located in the library. Not only did she know exactly what Buffy was doing with Giles, she wanted Buffy to know that she knew, and what she thought of her for it. Whoever had sent her, Mrs. Post wasn’t here to learn what was going on or even to prove it. She was here to play the villain for villainy’s sake, to wreck Buffy’s and Giles’s lives or at least to use the threat of doing so to gain some advantage. ‘To night the role of Iago will be played by Gwendolyn Post, _Mrs_.’

“Yikes,” said Xander, when Willow explained the real meaning of question seventeen, as soon as they were out of class. “I think you’d better go ahead and sign up for summer school now, Buff, ‘cause there is literally no way you are going to pass this class.”

“I think maybe we’d better go warn the key master,” Buffy countered, “See if he has any idea how to deal with this prehistoric bitch.”

“Humph,” Giles sniffed indignantly when he’d heard everything that Gwendolyn had had to say to Buffy out loud as well as in writing. “Pluck a cord indeed! She may find my strings have been tuned a bit differently since she played me last!”

“What I don’t get,” Buffy said, “is why she’s giving away so much. I mean, how does she expect to play anyone if she announces ahead of time that that’s what she’s doing?”

Giles smiled and squeezed Buffy’s hand. “That’s the best evidence, My Dear, of how far behind the times she really is. You see, she’s assuming that you and I keep our own counsels as much as she and I always did. We never discussed anything of substance until it became an imminent and overwhelming crisis.”

“So she thinks Buffy is just going to like get intimidated by her and sulk and worry and not tell you about it?” Xander summarized.

“Precisely,” said Giles thinly. Buffy could tell that he was offended by Xander’s active participation in what should have been a private conversation, though he was too polite to say so.

She changed the subject to Willow and Xander’s problems. Willow explained her plans to try releasing the curse on the prosecutor, hoping that would help clear up Xander’s case. “But if you’re the puppet master,” Xander objected, “why not just tell him to drop all of our charges and amend Eric’s to first degree being an asshole and _then_ let him off the string.”

“The spell doesn’t work like that,” Willow explained defensively, looking down at her hands. “He’s not... my _slave_... I would never... I mean I didn’t even mean.... it was just supposed to make him a little worried about the strength of the case.”

“Yeah well, this is my life we’re talking about now,” Xander pointed out, “so whatever it was supposed to do, let’s see what you can do with it.”

“She’ll do no such thing!” Giles interjected sternly, drawing everyone’s attention. “Listen up, the lot of you,” he instructed. “There’s been quite a bit of _toying_ with the dark arts round here lately, and I won’t deny I’ve had a hand in encouraging it. But it isn’t right, and I won’t continue to be a party to it. I may not be a Watcher for much longer, but as long as I am, I am sworn to _fight_ the forces of darkness. Using magic to manipulate people and thereby solve your personal problems is quite the opposite of that!”

Buffy was so stunned by his intensity she didn’t know what to say. She was even more stunned when Willow said, “You’re right. I can’t do that. I’m never doing any more magic except to undo the spells I’ve already done, I swear.”

“Well,” Xander laughed bitterly, “I wouldn’t want anybody to stain their spotless conscience on my account. You two just go bang your brains out,” he said to Buffy and Giles. “And you,” he said to Willow, “go shopping; buy some nice new toys for your rat. I’m gonna go see if I can find a bridge to sleep under now that my folks threw me out of the house, and a job—you know if anyone will give a job to psycho to sleeps under a bridge—‘cause, you know Snyder is even now working on throwing me out of school, not that that’ll matter much when I’m doing twenty to life for rape, but hey, I wouldn’t want you to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. If you happen to see Cordelia—cause you know I’m never going to see her again—tell her you did everything you could for us, you know, in good conscience.”

“Xander wait!” Buffy called at his retreating back. With a cold glare at her equally glowering husband, she followed him from the room.

“Oh, God! Giles,” Willow wailed laying her head on the table and sobbing. “What am I supposed to do?! Everything I can do is wrong, and I don’t even know if I can do it! I don’t want to hurt anyone, especially not Xander. I just want everything to go back to the way it was!” 

Giles sat down next to her and laid a friendly hand on her shoulder, patting it soothingly. He knew exactly how she felt. He’d been there before, once quite recently, but there was little he could say to comfort her. Despite Xander’s pitiable circumstances, he was still firmly convinced that the last thing Willow needed was to use magic even once more to overpower another human being. Xander would just have to rely on the truth and a very good lawyer to set him free. The trouble was, Giles knew all too well that that wasn’t always enough.

****

Buffy was sitting in Chemistry class pretending to read about covalent bonds while actually trying to assure Xander that everything would be alright, or at least, even if it wasn’t he’d have a place to sleep, when two things happened at once that should not have. A tiny vibration told her that she had a text message, which she automatically flipped open her phone to read; and Principal Snyder walked into the classroom looking for Xander. 

“Dr. Clark,” the Principal said by way of greeting, not even looking as his rattled subordinate put down his copy of _Scientific American_ and got to his feet. His eyes were already focused on the third row, where they met two lovely sights. There sat a sullen, resentful, defeated Alexander Harris, knowing that he was about to be tossed out into the great wide world with the unwashed masses to which he properly belonged; and next to him a guilty, caught red handed Buffy Summers shoving a contraband cell phone into her purse. It was the least enforced rule at Sunnydale High, openly flouted by students and teachers alike, but a rule nonetheless.

“Give me that, Summers,” he demanded, pulling the phone from her hand. For a moment, it seemed as if he lacked the strength to pull it free, but she released it at last, smiling viciously. Flipping it open he read the message from ‘Mom’: “Talked to Mrs. O. Oz is alive, needs help ASAP. Get Willow.” Good lord, whatever these delinquents were up to, the parents were in on it too! Snyder stuck the phone in his pocket. “Detention, Summers, my office, _not_ Coach Hawkins’ after school. And if Ms. Rosenberg happens to leave this campus one minute before 2:30 today, I will personally see to it that the only diploma she will ever get is stamped ‘Del Bacco County JDC School.’ Which is better than some people will ever get. Harris, you’re expelled. You are banned from this campus. I will now escort you out.”

Harris glared at him with contempt. “Go to the Gallery,” Buffy told him, handing him five dollars out of her purse. “Take the bus. Tell Mom—”

“That’s enough out of you Summers!” said Snyder caustically.

“I’ve had enough of _you_ , Snyder,” Xander replied hotly, getting to his feet and standing toe to toe with the tiny tyrant. “Lead on little fella. I’m _so_ ready to get thrown out of this dump!”

 ****

Technically, Giles wasn’t breaking any rules. He didn’t close the library or leave it unattended. Coach Davis was a paid, certified faculty member who needed _something_ to do. He was simply taking a half day of emergency leave. This was definitely an emergency.

When he didn’t find Engels in his office, he went to his home. That had its advantages, actually. No one answered the bell, but the door wasn’t locked. Very sloppy. Somewhere deep inside Rupert felt a familiar sense of regret for the wrong he was about to commit, but he knew better than to let it bother him while he was working. He’d decided what the best thing was to do under the circumstance and he was doing it. At least this time it was entirely his decision.

He crept silently down the carpeted hallway, listening at doors for the sound of voices or breathing. At the end of the hall, he found the right door and walked in without turning on the light. “Sit up,” he said in a hard, calm voice, no menace yet, just authority.

“Who are you?” his victim gasped, voice shaking. “What are you doing here?” He was literally cowering beneath the covers. It was pitiable. But the part of Rupert Giles that was capable of feeling pity was not doing the talking.

Rupert smiled in the dark, not because he was pleased, but because it does something to ones voice to smile, even in the dark. “I have come,” he repeated in an old familiar cadence, “to prevent someone else from coming. Someone who does not want to have to come here. Someone you don’t want to have to face.”

“I’ll call 911,” the coward threatened desperately.

“No you won’t,” said Rupert coolly, “and do you know why not?” The man shook his shrouded head. “Because I’m not here to break your legs,” he said. This part of the speech was new but he was pleased with his polished delivery. “I’m here to save your soul.”

Engels poked his head above the covers at last. The fear etched on his face was mingled with a desperate longing. “What do I have to do?” he asked.

“Repent!” said Rupert forcefully though no louder than a whisper.

“I do, I do!” the man wept. It was easier than Rupert had expected. Within the locked chamber where his emotions were being kept, his fear both of and for Willow was growing.

“You have done murder!” He indicted, “You have killed men with a stroke of a pen, do you deny it?!”

“No, no,” Engels wailed, “I admit it, I admit it, I repent.”

“You have born false witness and enticed others to do so, depriving the innocent of their liberty and property for the gain and glory or corrupt men, do you deny it?”

“No, it’s true, it’s all true! I repent! I repent!”

“If you repent, then why do you persist in evil?” Rupert demanded. “No, you cannot be saved. You do not repent. You are beyond hope of redemption!” Speaking these last six words sent a chill down Rupert’s spine. They were not part of his standard speech but he had used them once before.

“No! Please! Please!” the man wailed, “I want to be saved. I want to be good. I want to be _clean_!”

“THEN REPENT!!!” Rupert commanded with the resonance of a shout though the volume of his voice rose only to a conversational level. He pulled Engels’ blankets away and forced Hal’s documents into his hands. There were two Motions to Dismiss and one Amended Delinquency Petition. “Sing them,” Rupert whispered, firmly but not unkindly.

“But the girl is guilty,” he quavered.

“And so to be charged,” Rupert replied, “no more than her companion and no less.” That was all the argument Engels had in him. He signed the papers. At Rupert’s direction he wrote down half a dozen fax numbers and pointed him toward the machine. When all the papers were sent, Rupert dialed the phone and listened while Engels told Karen, Judge Fondren’s clerk, and then the judge himself that these were his acts and those of the State of California.

“Did I do enough?” Mark asked eagerly. “Am I forgiven?” There was no answer. He turned to find that the stranger had disappeared as mysteriously as he had come.

****

Snyder read through the entire stream of texts a dozen more times.

Monday

CC: “flamethrowers”

Tuesday

CC: “what?”

**“Is Willow with you?”**

CC: “Yeah”

**“We r in AZ, no way 2 get back by 3.”**

CC: “AZ? Y?”

**“secret wedding”**

CC: “seriously? Now?” “WTF?!!!!! what abt W?”

**“can you do it?”**

CC: “Me?”

**“Then who?”**

CC: “Xander”

**“OK. Thanks. Sorry. Lot going on.”**

CC: “So I c. If W goes bck 2 jail X will kill you both.”

**“We’ll go quietly.”**

CC: “not funny, not cool.”

**“ouch. Seriously, sorry.”**

CC: “u owe us.”

**“no lie”**

CC: “something big”

**“world saveage?”**

CC: “Ha! Nice try! I’ll let u know!”

**“OK.”**

CC: “So, so big...”

**“Done.”**

CC: “Damn right.”

**“Meanwhile... back in Sunnydale?”**

CC: “No arrests or fatalities. No sign of vampires on the move. Tell Giles we need $1200 cash by tomorrow night to buy flamethrowers.”

**“Ouch, I know I said big but asking Giles to spend money is above and beyond!”**

CC: “Tell, not ask. It’s the wife’s job to spend.

**“So there’s a difference between ‘emancipated’ and ‘liberated’?**

CC: “You bet your ass!”

**{Photo: mirror shot.  Buff Summers, a strange but flattering white dress. NO TEXT}**

CC: “Seriously?”

**“I think I can live with it.”**

CC: “LOL ‘Faith Manages’”

**“Who are you and what have you done with Cordelia Chase?”**

CC: “It’s contagious, save yourself.”

**“Vamp attack! All hands on deck. Call Willow.”**

Yesterday

1:33 am

**“R U Alive? Call me!!!!**

The most salacious and sensational form of the lowest and most prosaic of all scandals, _and_ they were ‘fighting evil’ at the same time. With the Rosenberg girl. And Garrett Chase’s daughter. The worst part was the messages could never be used publicly against them for that reason. Still, the people who mattered would know, the Sheriff, the Police Chief, the Mayor. The very worst part was the rumors that were already spreading about his new English teacher and potential librarian. A student/teacher love _triangle_ was lower if less prosaic. Triangle? Hell, if you believed stories about Thurman and Frank, it was starting to look like a damned daisy-chain.

“Sit,” He said when the girl walked into his office at 2:32. She sat. He handed her back her phone. She took a minute to absorb the conversation it was opened to.

“He’ll quit,” she offered, “by tomorrow if you want.”

“What about you, Summers?” Snyder asked, “Or whatever your name is.”

“I can’t quit,” Buffy said evenly, “I have to finish school.”

“The Del Bacco County Adult Education Center has an excellent GED program,” Snyder replied, snaky-sweet.

“My lawyer says you can’t throw me out for this,” Buffy told him. “Even an emancipated minor is still entitled to a public education.”

“It might make things easier on your husband,” Snyder suggested coolly, “save him the trouble of a criminal investigation.”

“You can reassemble the entire ten-thousand ton Cross from all the bits they sold in the Middle Ages and I’ll swear on it he never touched me until after,” Buffy replied just as coolly.

“You got married on Tuesday,” Snyder reminded her, “he told the 911 dispatcher you were pregnant on Monday night.”

Buffy shrugged, “I can name you a dozen suspects,” she bluffed, “most of whom will cheerfully admit to it, since they can’t legally be hooked for child support at this point. Of course, I guess the dead ones won’t admit to it, or the teachers. It’ll make for interesting reading though.” She felt guilt about her next threat, but she knew it would be effective. “You know...” she said in her best imitation of innocence, “Owen Thurman always liked me.”

****

Zabuto rented a van at the airport. He didn’t say much to Giles. There wasn’t much to say. Joyce opened and closed the garage door for them. She closed her Gallery two hours early to do it. She joined them in the storage room. The three stood alone with their thoughts for a moment. Gently, Zabuto reached and pulled the white sheet from over Kendra’s face. His own features remained blank, unreadable, stoic. He shook his head. There was mild reproach and gentle affection in his voice when he said, “Oh, Child. Child, Child, Child.”

Joyce bit her lip, blinking away tears, feeling foolish for being the only one crying. She never knew the girl. But she was crying, harder and harder. She couldn’t help it. ‘Cry,’ said a little bitter defiant voice deep inside her, ‘don’t be sorry. Someone should.’ Soon she was overwhelmed with violent angry tears. Giles tried to put a hand on her elbow, to steady her, to keep her from collapsing. She pushed him away, leaning on the wall instead, sobbing into her hands. According to Buffy, Kendra would have been sixteen in April. Would have been.

Zabuto turned away, looking angry himself now. Giles put the sheet back over Kendra’s face and carried her to the van. There was a metal shipping coffin waiting for her. He laid the body inside and bolted the lid down while Zabuto got behind the wheel and waited without another word. When Giles closed the cargo doors, Zabuto started the engine. Drying her eyes, Joyce opened the garage door and closed it behind him.

****

“What in the name of God is going on?!” Sheriff Wilkins demanded, waving the papers in Judge Fondren’s face.

“Engels moved to dismiss the charges,” the judge said simply, “noting quote, ‘a lack of probable cause’ unquote, and sating a fairly convincing factual basis in both cases. Any conviction we could get would be reversed and dismissed. There’s nothing I can do.”

“I can’t release the Sunnydale Butcher!” Ron railed. “There’ll be chaos! Blood will run in the streets!”

“That’ll be a change,” Fondren said sardonically.

“Garrett Chase will kill me,” the Sheriff argued more honestly. “Especially with the Harris kid getting off at the same time. Mark had enough trouble talking him down to probation plus time served last year, and that was with the whole Delta Zeta Kappa bunch breathing down our necks on account of Wiftler’s father. And then _they_ turn right around—”

“That’s not my problem,” the judge cut in unsympathetically, “I’m putting them on the docket for Monday and I promise you, these charges will be dismissed.”

“Then I wash my hands of it,” Ron said gravely.

****

“I don’t know what I can do,” Willow warned, feeling the weight of Mrs. Osborne’s expectations. “I’m not really a real witch; I just started learning a few weeks ago.”

“Oh,” Oz’s mother said. She seemed surprised as well as worried.

Willow couldn’t quite suppress the bitterness in her voice when she said, “there was no one left to teach me, so if I can’t help, you can thank your husband I guess.”

“He was just a boy,” Constance whispered defensively, turning her eyes away.

“Sheila was eight,” Willow reminded her, “but I’m not here for her or him or you. I’m here for Oz.”

Constance nodded. They stopped outside the door and composed their expressions to hide their worry, fear and hostility. They were both smiling nervously when Connie led the way into the room full of anxious faces saying, “Danny, look who’s here.”

Oz smiled, pulling his oxygen mask briefly from his face. “Hey,” he croaked. He was pale and weak. Near death. It frightened Willow to see him. She wanted to throw herself onto his bed and weep, to let her tears wash away his pain and make him well. She wanted to confess her sins, but they would only hurt him.

Everyone looked at Willow expectantly, “Hi, Oz” she replied gently. Amy’s bag of books and supplies weighed heavily on her shoulder. She didn’t even know where to start looking. She loved him so much! She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Suddenly, Willow had a terrifying idea. It scared her all the more because she instantly knew she could do it. She knew it would work. “Leave us,” she said, surprised by the calm authority of her voice. With worried looks, the three adults did as they were told.

Willow looked Oz steadily in the eye. “Do you trust me?” she asked. He nodded. “Good,” she said. “Then close your eyes.” He did, without hesitation. Willow said her incantations only in her head. It was a silent spell, meant to be used on an unsuspecting victim. Immediately the quality of Oz’s breathing changed, becoming impossibly deep and even. Willow left the oxygen mask in place just in case.“He’s sleeping now,” she said quietly, in response to the three questioning looks that waited for her downstairs. “I’ll stay,” she said to Ken and Maureen, “go take care of your son.”

“What happens now?” Constance asked quietly.

“Now?” Willow smiled nervously, “We just have to hope my magic is stronger than the moon.”

****

It was 4:00 when Buffy got back to Revello Drive. Giles was there, drinking coffee in grim silence with her mother. “Snyder’s on to us.” She said sitting down across from him.

“How much does he know?” Giles asked.

“Everything,” said Buffy half apologetically, “He took my phone and read my messages. He demands that you resign by 8a.m. and surrender your teaching license by Monday.”

Giles rubbed his temples. “Well then, the game is up,” he said, sounding almost relieved. “I’d better have another talk with Robson. We still want the official word to the Council to come from us if at all possible. Of course, once my father learns this, which should be any moment, he may decide to beat us to the punch. Or Gwendolyn herself might. She always was spiteful.”

“This Council Disciplinary Proceeding,” Joyce asked, with business-like gravity, “what can they actually do to you?”

“Well,” said Giles, “if all goes according to plan, “Julian will accuse me of... wrongdoing and demand that as punishment the Weregelder Line be stripped of its Seat on the Inner Council, that I be expelled from the Outer Council but not Stricken from the Registry of Watchers. I’ll be fired from my present assignment and assigned to an inactive reserve status either without pay or hopefully at half base pay. Meanwhile, I expect to have private assurances that I’ll not be deported or reassigned outside California.”

“And what about Buffy?” Joyce persisted. “How are they going to ‘discipline’ her?”

“Again if all goes to plan, Phillip will raise the issue of her misconduct and demand that she submit to a review by a committee that Julian will head and follow its recommendations for improvement, which are guaranteed not to include any divorces, abortions, sterilizations or vows of chastity. Basically, she’ll have to promise to be a good Slayer and mind her new Watcher.”

“So it’s probation for me after all,” said Buffy resignedly.

“And if all doesn’t go according to plan?” Joyce persisted.

“Bloody Hell,” Giles admitted worriedly, “they are capable of almost anything.”

“Murder?” Joyce asked. Buffy almost laughed. She said it so seriously.

“Of course not,” Giles said grimly, straightening the cuffs on his Oxford shirt.

“But they don’t have any other way to replace her,” Joyce pointed out.

“We are not barbarians!” said Giles defensively looking Joyce very firmly in the eye. “No, they’ll try to use me to punish her, and to control her.”

“How very civilized,” said Joyce sarcastically.

“That’s just what I was thinking,” Buffy agreed.

“Fortunately,” Giles assured her, “most of the people who matter on the Council realize what a talented Slayer you are. Regardless of what else they might think of you or me, I can’t imagine that they are that desperate to find a replacement.”

****

“He’s in the bedroom,” Claybrooke explained leading the way, “what’s left of him. Literally smashed to a pulp, just like the others. Two local cops got here before we did, but they bought the FBI Counter Intel bit. They’re upstairs with their crime scene tech and the neighbor who called 911 standing by for us to finish.”

“Grant said there were two victims,” Quentin Travers observed quietly.

Claybrooke shrugged. “There was a woman killed with him. One good swift kick to the teeth, smashed her whole face in. Nothing like him though. He was definitely the target. His name’s Gilley. Trenton Gilley. Forty-six, married. Not to the lovely lady in the bed with him. Two grown kids. Late Vietnam era Army vet. Never saw combat. Officially retired from the Post Office on 70% disability. Unofficially a mid-level purveyor of crack, smack and whores to the good people of Cleveland. He’s not on our list, but he did spend time in South Boston in the ’80s. Paroled out there to his sister’s house when he got out of prison the first time.”

“Five in Boston,” Quentin observed contemplatively, “counting the unfortunate Mr. Brower and the mother. Two more on the east coast, then Mobile, then Pittsburgh, now this.”

“All in just two days,” Claybrooke observed grimly, missing the point altogether, “and this time in broad daylight.”

“She’s working her way west,” Quentin clarified. “We’ll wait for her in Scottsdale and snare her when she goes for Dr. Ericson.”

Claybrooke’s brow furrowed. “What about Patrick Llewellyn?”

“What about him?” Quentin asked.

“He’s the next on our list. Kansas City is East of Scottsdale.”

“I was actually aware of that fact,” said Quentin dryly. “There are gaps in her information, just as there are in ours,” he explained. “Different gaps because she is working from different sources. But Ericson is too obvious to miss. She’ll come for him sooner or later, probably sooner. And when she does, we’ll have our lost lamb back in the fold at last.”

“Begging your pardon Sir,” said Claybrooke, looking more than a little green around the gills, “but what then? What are we going to do with her when we catch her?”

“I’d have thought that was obvious,” Quentin declared pompously, “when we catch her, we are going to kill her. Very, very gently and carefully. At least the first couple of times.”

****

It was after two a.m. when the call came in. Robson was still wide awake, working late into the night as was his habit. “Events are moving faster than I’d hoped,” Rupert said seriously. “How are things shaping up on your end?”

“You’ve only given me 33 hours,” Robson pointed out. “The mountain isn’t moved yet.”

“Is there _any_ progress?” Giles asked.

“Julian is... enamored of the idea, but not yet committed,” Robson said. “He’d rather not be seen to demand the Seat, and obviously I can’t. We must either take someone into our confidence or manipulate them into it. If the former, probably Milton. If the latter... Quentin or Dunstan would happily demand the Seat, but only if your head on a pike comes with it.”

“What about Virgil?” Giles asked. “He’ll be so incensed by the whole thing that he’s likely to take a show of righteous indignation at face value, even from Julian. On top of that, he can’t imagine any worse punishment than to be the end of one’s Line. It should be pretty easy to put the idea into his head that you are moving aggressively against me, not accommodating me. Of course, Dunstan will try to point it out to him, but he tends to stay convinced of whatever he was convinced of first. He’ll think it’s only spitefulness.”

Robson took a moment to consider this bold suggestion. “How will we explain not having you Stricken?” Robson asked.

“As a mercy to my poor wife,” Giles explained, “with whom it is, after all, in the Council’s interest to make peace at almost any price. You can hardly tell a pregnant woman that she’s to cut off all ties with her newly wedded husband and expect her to salute and fall in line, even Virgil and Dunstan can surely see that and—dear God! Quentin will suggest _exactly_ that, it’s the fastest way to destroy her!”

Robson sighed, “I really do think you overestimate his taste for villainy,” he said thinly.

“Humph,” Giles sniffed, “that man’s hatred of me knows no limits, though it’s nothing to his hatred of my father. If he could make me responsible for a Slayer turning against the Council, that would serve for us both.”

“Well, let him call for it,” Robson advised, “Whatever his motives. Now I think about it he’ll never get four votes to recommend it. Milton and Davidson will instantly see that the cost is too high. They might go for reassignment though. That’d give them more leverage against her, since there’d always be the hope of undoing it.” Both men were quiet for a moment, thinking about the problem in all its facets. “How much time do we have?” Robson asked.

“About twelve to eighteen hours,” said Rupert seriously. “My head teacher has just found out that I am married to a student and has demanded my resignation by morning. Gwendolyn cannot fail to learn of this fact by lunch time and will feel compelled to report it immediately. She’d rather have the secret as a stick to beat me with, of course, but she’ll know she can’t keep it long.”

“Gwendolyn who?” Robson asked, utterly confused. “What are you on about?”

“What do you mean ‘Gwendolyn who’?” Giles countered testily. _Gwendolyn_ , Gwendolyn Font, or rather Gwendolyn Post, _Mrs._ ”

“Good God!” Robson gasped, “you’ve not had _contact_ with her?!”

“Not of my own free will,” Giles assured him puzzled. “My father sent her here to toy with me, she implied by way of some Committee or other group within the Outer Council.”

“Rupert,” Robson said gravely, “Gwendolyn was Stricken from the Registry almost a year ago, didn’t you get the memo?”

“No, I did not,” Giles assured him. “I’m certain I would have remembered that! Good lord! What has she done now?” Robson made a slightly amused noise. “Never mind about the irony,” Giles said impatiently, in no mood to be amused, “why was she Stricken?”

“Multiple abuses of dark power,” Robson explained. “Cursing her personal enemies, summoning demons, you name it. Also, her husband has been missing for thirteen months.”

“Good God!” Giles cried. “Poor bastard.” He’d known Bill only slightly long ago, but he’d spent his share of nights in Gwendolyn’s bed feeling that he ought to sleep with one eye open.

“I’ll buy a vacation home in Hell before I’ll believe Andrew Giles is using a Stricken Watcher to do his bidding,” Robson said firmly.

Giles gave the matter a little thought. “I’m quite certain he hates me enough to do even that if he thought it truly necessary,” he said, “but you’re right, he’d be loathe to if he could help it at all, and he’s certainly creative enough to find other means to torment me.”

“We all thought our parents were out to get us at one time in our lives,” Robson said, grimly amused. “You’re the only person I know over forty who still thinks so.”

“Well, be that as it may,” Giles said, diplomatically refraining from pointing out that in his case it happened to be true, “the question remains, if my father didn’t send her, who did?”

“Perhaps she came of her own accord,” Robson suggested. “You are on a Hellmouth after all. She might be angling to get her hands on any one of a dozen sources of dark power.”

“That’s true,” Giles admitted, “and frightening. But it doesn’t explain why she felt she could so boldly waltz in here and represent herself as a Watcher with orders to observe and participate in my work with the Slayer. She must have _known_ that I wouldn’t know of her removal. Which suggests that someone _within_ the Council arranged for me not to be informed.”

“Perhaps she has an accomplice on the Permanent Staff or one of the Committees,” Robson mused worriedly. “Or maybe she used magic to confuse you,” he added more hopefully.

“I did have a brief period of memory loss shortly after I first encountered her here,” Giles admitted skeptically, “but I’ve been attributing that to a series of rather severe concussions I’ve suffered recently.”

“Well, that’s probably it then,” Robson opined. “Her use of witchcraft has always been a little clumsy. That’s how she was caught in the first place. She has more interest than talent in the dark arts, I think.”

“Yes,” Giles admitted, brooding a little. “She always was a bit too keen to hear about my... exploits in that arena. I don’t suppose I was a terribly good influence on her, come to that.”

“Well she’s a grown woman,” Robson pointed out. “Even then she was, if not by so much. Still, I guess we had better investigate the possibility that someone at Headquarters is helping her. Hopefully it shouldn’t take more than a few days, and then we can have her deported. In the meantime, just... avoid her as much as you can without tipping her off and keep her away from the Slayer.”

“That may prove rather difficult,” Giles informed him grimly. “You see, Gwendolyn is Buffy’s new English teacher.”

Robson laughed. “Rupert, how do you get yourself into these situations?”

“Infrequently,” Giles reminded him, “though not infrequently enough.”

“Just... do the best you can to make sure they’re not left alone together. We wouldn’t want Gwendolyn telling Buffy things she doesn’t need to know.”

Giles sniffed derisively. “By which, of course, we mean things _we_ need for her not to know,” he said.

“If she finds them out from you, you will be Stricken,” Robson informed him flatly. “I’ll see to it myself.”

Giles was quiet for a long moment. It had entered his head to point out that Gwendolyn might not have to be alone with Buffy to inform her of Cruciamentum or any other dark secrets of the Watcher’s Council. But the example he would have given of her coded communications sparked something else in his mind. “Quentin!” he all but shouted aloud, convinced at once of the truth of the revelation, “Quentin Travers has sent her! He must have!”

“I think you are diagnosably paranoid,” Robson informed him quiet seriously. “I’m going to recommend that you see Dr. Mickleson for an evaluation prior to your Proceeding.”

“Look, hear me out,” Giles insisted. “You see, Gwendolyn has been using her lectures and tests to send coded messages—threats and insults—to Buffy—”

“You’re supposed to be making a case that you’re _not_ paranoid,” Robson reminded him at once worried and amused.

“The point is,” Giles said thinly, “she made a particular reference this morning to something from Othello, Desdemona having the office opposite St. Peter, keeping the gate of Hell, of course it was clearly aimed at Buffy in more ways than one, but now I think she might have been too clever for her own good, enjoying the irony of another meaning to that reference.”

Robson knew what he meant of course. Back in the sixties and seventies, Peter Travers had been known among the young aspiring Watchers as “St. Peter” because he was widely acknowledged to be the gatekeeper of applications for enrollment. For obvious reasons, it had been a common joke that his son held the opposite office. “An unconscious slip within a coded message from a known enemy,” Robson said dryly. “A bit thin to accuse an Equal of the Inner Council of misconduct, don’t you think?”

“It isn’t _only_ that,” Giles insisted earnestly. “It makes too much sense!”

“It makes no sense at all!” Robson countered harshly. “Your insistence on seeing the Selection of Examiner as a plot to murder the Slayer is an insult to the Council and frankly it’s beginning to try my patience!”

Of course, Robson thought he understood the reasons for Rupert’s paranoia, probably better than the man himself, but there was no sense encouraging him in these dangerous delusions. Relations between the Slayer and the Council were soon likely to be strained enough without her _husband_ imagining that he needed to _protect_ her from them. As much as Robson felt for his old friend and wanted to help him, if he thought for a moment that the Slayer would tolerate it, he’d vote to have him Stricken. He didn’t think the man yet understood what a terrible thing he’d done or how much danger the whole of humanity was likely to face because of it.

“Very well,” Giles said, choosing his battles, “we shall see what your investigation uncovers. But as a favor to me, in an abundance of caution, could you please try to avoid giving Quentin an active role in investigating.”

“I will proceed with all due discretion,” Robson assured him diplomatically.

“Well,” Giles joked, “if Gwendolyn’s information does immediately reach the Council, I suppose that would be a clue wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would I suppose,” Robson laughed. They both knew Quentin, if he were involved, would be more circumspect. “And if it doesn’t we may have a few days before we have to make our move.”

“Yes,” Giles agreed, “hopefully. No more than that, I think. If we are counting on Virgil for a vote, or even to introduce a proposal, it will be critical that he discusses the situation with you or Julian before anyone else of significance. A first impression is the only kind he knows how to make. We can’t risk him hearing about this without our knowing it.”

“Well,” Robson said, “Better start working on that Report tonight. Have it ready. I’ll tell you when and where to send it.”

“And what a piece of reading that will be!” said Giles grimly amused. Robson agreed and started to excuse himself, waiting for Rupert’s farewell. Giles’ pulse quickened. It was now or never. “Phillip, I’ve been struggling for days with the impulse to ask you something,” he more or less apologized in advance. “And I know, it’s not, strictly speaking, related to... any of this in a practical sense...but I’m in for a lot more than a penny as it is in violating Council protocol, so I may as well ask....”

“You want to know about your mother,” Robson discerned.

“Yes,” Giles acknowledged. “I may not be privy to all the workings of the Inner Council, but I’m fair certain I could not have been enrolled on the strength of my father’s flat assertion of paternity, and it’s a good bet it wasn’t based on DNA evidence, not in 1977.”

“It stands to reason,” Robson acknowledged. “Of course, I was Outer Council then. We took their word for it. That’s the way it was.”

“And you’ve learned nothing in your time on the Inner Council?”

“I don’t go digging through the archives of secret proceedings just to satisfy my curiosity,” Robson said soberly. “It’s considered very bad form. Honestly, I’m glad I don’t know. I took an Oath, Rupert. I take it seriously. If I had the information, I might be tempted to give it to you, but I haven’t.”

“You have a guess, though, haven’t you, Phillip?” Rupert persisted. “I can hear it in your voice. Surely speculating can’t be a violation of your Oath.”

“I have... a suspicion,” Robson admitted, “based on... certain things I’ve learned inside and outside the Council, and based on knowing _you_ for thirty-five years ... but... It could be entirely the product of my imagination.”

“I’ll take it with as much salt as necessary,” Rupert assured him. His heart was pounding. He was hungry to hear even the wildest speculation. Even if it wasn’t true, it could lead to something. Anyone close enough to events to be a suspect was bound to be a witness at the very least.

“I can’t,” said Robson apologetically. “If is true... you don’t want to know.”

Disappointment stabbed Rupert in the heart, making him suddenly bitter. “That’s a fine thing to say to a man with a classical education,” he said sardonically.

“I didn’t mean—!” Robson began defensively.

“No,” Rupert replied, a little less bitterly, “I know you didn’t. Believe it or not, however, I have heard of insinuations along those lines from various sources.”

Robson laughed. “Not from anyone who ever knew Helena!”

“Indeed not,” Rupert Agreed. “Truthfully, I can’t imagine how she ever got pregnant once.”

“Deliberately, I imagine,” said Robson, “the same way she did everything.”

“You’re probably right about that,” Giles admitted. “Paragon though she was, she was much too practical to have let the Line die out over any sort of moral sentimentality. And much too honest to take any sort vows in vain.”

“And much too independent to have meant them,” Robson agreed. “I can’t imagine the poor fool who would aspire to be the master in a house where Helena Giles was the mistress.”

Giles laughed. “That would be my father, of course.”

“Ah well then,” said Robson facetiously, “I feel sorry for him.”

“As would I,” Giles agreed, even dark levity wearing thin, “were he not plotting to murder my wife in order to punish me for existing, which was altogether his fault and not mine.”

“Ha. Ha,” said Robson dryly, knowing full well that Rupert wasn’t joking. “Good night, old friend. I truly do wish you and your wife all the best.”

Giles sat at Joyce’s desk for a moment thinking. Whatever Robson believed, he was sure that Travers had sent Gwendolyn to him. If he could find a way to prove it, he realized, he’d be a fool to let Robson or anyone else on the Council know. For the second time in his life, he’d have a secret that was truly dangerous to Travers. This time he was going to keep it and use it as a stick to beat him with.

He found Buffy and her mother in her room going through her things, packing. “Can I be of assistance?” he asked. Joyce looked up at him disappointedly but politely said that he could. There were photo albums spread out on the bed as well as clothing and various other items piled around the room, in and out of boxes. Clearly she wanted to spend a little more time with her daughter. “By making diner, perhaps,” he offered. Joyce looked relieved.

“That’s a good idea,” Buffy agreed. She was sitting cross legged on the floor in front of her open closet filling a large garbage bag with shoes, lashing the pairs together by their strings or straps. “I’m starving. But first, what’s the sitch? Are we going to get away with this or not?”

"I honestly don’t know," he admitted. "Things are more... complex than I first suspected, but I think our plan has a good chance of success, though I have a lot to tell you over dinner."

She had a lot to tell him as well, but Xander Harris turned up for dinner per her invitation, and told most of it himself. “Last night, my folks got in a huge drunken fight about me and when I tried to get in the middle, they both turned on me. I’m not really sure if they threw me out of the house or if I ran away from home, but Dad said don’t come back. Add that to getting kicked out of school and it was sort of my best day ever.”

“I would think they’d be glad to have you home,” Joyce said, shocked, “unless they actually think you ... did those things, but even then...”

Xander laughed. “It wasn’t even about that. No, apparently I get a pass on rape and murder. They want to fight about whether I’m making them ‘beholden’ to Sheila for bailing me out and hiring Hal, cause they figure her for both. Thank you, by the way, for Hal, I can tell he’s good.” Giles accepted his thanks politely. He wished he’d realized what the ultimate solution to Xander’s problem was likely to be before he’d set fire to ten thousand dollars. He supposed he should just be grateful that the problem was solved and that Hal hadn’t insisted on the other ten.

“We could send him to lean on Engels,” Buffy suggested, more serious than joking.

“He tried already,” Xander said. “That’s why I figure it has to be Willow. I wouldn’t ask otherwise, I swear.”

“You haven’t heard from Hal today?” Giles asked, trying to ignore their blatant disregard for his earlier admonishment, telling himself it didn’t matter now the deed was done.

“I haven’t been home,” Xander said, “you know, since I don’t have one.” Giles refrained from suggesting he call Hal at once. The boy was suffering, but it was temporary.

“Do you need a place to stay tonight?” Joyce asked sympathetically.

“Yeah, actually,” Xander said, not mentioning that Buffy had already offered, “that would be great. I’ll sleep on the couch or the floor, wherever.”

“Actually,” Joyce said, “you can sleep in Buffy’s bed.”

Xander grinned, “That’s fine with me, but where’s Giles going to sleep.”

“How very amusing,” said Giles not the least bit amused. He was aware that young people were not taught even the most basic tenants of courtesy anymore, but some things really ought to be intuitive.

“We’re going home tonight,” Buffy said cheerfully, leaning against Giles, “to our very own home. I took care of all my charges yesterday, so now I can live wherever I want.”

“Must be nice,” Xander said.

Giles let them go on chatting while he mulled his own cares. He did express his concern at the revelation that Willow was even now at Oz’s home doing yet more magic for the admittedly worthy purpose of trying to keep him alive. He didn’t say too much however, realizing that he was alone in his misgivings. “It’s an emergency,” Xander pointed out. “I mean, killing one of my friends isn’t exactly at the top of my list of things I want to do before I die.”

Eventually Buffy brought up the subject of his conversation with Robson. He didn’t add any detail to what he’d said about the actual discipline issues, not wanting to discuss it in front of Xander. It was none of his business, and it involved sensitive information about the structure and workings of the Council. Besides, he’d try to make a joke out of it.

Instead, Giles focused on the problem of Gwendolyn Post, disgraced former Watcher and possible black widow. “Sounds like I’m not the only one around here who’s lucky to still have a head,” Xander chimed in, more or less sympathetically.

“No more sparring with her in class,” Giles warned Buffy earnestly while Xander tactlessly explained his 'clever' remark to Joyce, “You may be giving her information without knowing it. Don’t let her get you alone either, there’s no telling what she might try to do.”

“I think I can take her,” said Buffy dryly.

“Not necessarily without killing her,” Giles countered, “which tends to get a bit messy in more ways than one. Besides, she might try to use some sort of magic or mind control on you.”

The rest of the meal passed pleasantly enough, and Xander even helped load some of Buffy’s things in Giles’ car. “We’re mostly just taking clothes and weapons tonight,” Buffy explained. “We’ll come back and finish going through everything else this weekend.”

“Is there anything else you need?” Joyce asked, obviously trying to prolong the moment.

“Have you any use for a ridiculously overqualified shop assistant?” Giles tried to joke.

“Only if you can work in the dark,” Joyce replied, “since I’d be paying you the money that goes to the light bill.” After that, there wasn’t much left to say.

“If you’re going to be staying here,” Giles said to Xander, his hand on the door to the garage, “you might want to let Hal know where he can contact you to prepare for your hearing.”

****

“So far so good,” Willow said nervously, breaking hours of tense, waiting silence. Constance looked up and met her eyes. They each sat on opposite sides of Oz’s unnaturally restful form holding a warm, limp hand. It was late. The moon was high in the sky. If anything were going to happen, it seemed like it would have happened by now.

“You should sleep,” Constance said. “You have school tomorrow. I’ll sit up with him.” Willow knew that Oz’s mother was right. She lay down on a twin bed in a guest room across the hall.

It was a long time before she slept, but when she slept she dreamed. Dreams of fire and pain. Dreams of loss. _Oz shot dead in the woods, his fur matted with blood. Ira holding Sheila’s limp body in his arm, eyes filled with grief and accusation. A man cowering at her feet, weeping, screaming, “I repent! I repent!”_

She arose a little after sunrise and looked into the room where Oz and his mother were sleeping. Without a word she left them. She went home to feed Amy, to put things off a little longer. But she knew what she had to do.

~~~~

Mrs. Engels was surprised to hear a knock at her door at seven a.m. But when she saw Chief Deputy Greer standing on her doorstep she was merely worried. “I need to see Mark right away,” he said gravely. She stood aside, silently ushering him in, led him to the bedroom and left him alone with her husband.

“What do you want?” Engels asked fearfully. He was shaking like a snow-wet toy poodle. “Did Ron send you to kill me?”

“Of course not,” Greer said gently, worriedly. But there was guilt in his voice. Suddenly, he waved a hand before his face and there, in his place, stood a young girl with long red hair and sad brown eyes. Mark recognized her as a juvenile defendant in which some powerful and quite mysterious people had taken a surprisingly keen interest, Willow Rosenberg. He didn’t try to understand how she had come to be there in Greer’s place. It was beyond him. Everything was beyond him.

She walked over to the bed and laid her hand on his shoulder. He cringed away, hiding his face from her. “I’m sorry,” she said simply, sincerely. “It was wrong. I release you. I beg your forgiveness.”

The Prosecutor straitened his shoulders and met her gaze, eyes blazing. He was still terrified of her of course, but there was a hard core of resistance and resentment under his fear. He _understood_ why he was afraid, and the knowledge made him angry. He sized her up. Her remorse seemed sincere. He didn’t see any material advantage to her in setting him free, especially once her friends’ charges had been dropped. Of course, if she was that sorry, it was a bit small of her to have her own charges reduced, but maybe she was feeling guilty for that too.

“Seventy days Detention,” he said, “ten for one.”

“Yes,” the girl agreed morosely, “I deserve that.”

“Worse,” said Engels bitterly, “but I can be merciful. I’ll send Ms. Graves your plea statement, and I’ll see you in court April 16th, nine a.m., as scheduled. Bring a toothbrush.”

****

Buffy woke up in Giles’ arms for the third morning running. Bliss. She kissed him gently on the lips and rubbed her body against him. “Mmmmmmm,” he said, opening his eyes, “Good morning, Buffy.”

“It’s about to get better,” she whispered directly into his ear.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“It’s early,” she assured him. Her hands felt good on his body and he responded in kind.

When they finished making love, it was very close to eight o’clock. Giles drove Buffy to school. They had nothing to hide now, but for decorum’s sake he didn’t let her kiss him good bye in the parking lot.

People stared and whispered anyhow. Some of them glared and grumbled in fact. Giles ignored them. “Ask Greg Miller to call me at home tonight,” he reminded Buffy. He wanted to find out how much the History teacher really understood about the supernatural situation and how likely he was to be a reliable ally. A friend on the faculty would be a great asset in minding the Hellmouth, and Gwendolyn Post certainly did not qualify.

Buffy headed to class, Giles to Snyder’s office, resignation letter in hand. “I made it effective immediately,” he said, “but I would like a couple of hours to pack my things.”

Snyder glanced at the letter. It was short and circumspect, citing only ‘personal reasons,’ for the librarian’s departure. He wished Buffy were as discrete. The important thing was the scoundrel would be gone today, and he wasn’t coming back. As for his worse half, the school board’s attorney insisted she couldn’t be expelled for getting married or pregnant as long as neither event had happened on campus. But it was only a matter of time before she would commit a serious enough, provable enough infraction. In the meantime, she wouldn’t be nearly as effective a meddler without faculty support.

“Be gone by ten o’clock,” He said, “And if you take a sheet of paper that belongs to this school, I’ll have you brought up on theft charges. I have an inventory. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and keep an eye on your _wife’s_ other partner in crime.”

****

Mr. Miller didn’t seem surprised when Buffy wanted to speak to him after class. “Is this about that project that Ms. Chase and Ms. Rosenberg were working on,” he asked, “because if you need any models for any future projects, I’ll help if I can.”

“Sort of yes but mostly no,” Buffy said, “although, thank you for that. I hope your... friend wasn’t too disappointed.”

Mr. Miller shrugged. “He’ll get over it,” he said. “What do you need?”

“Giles wants you to give him a call later,” she said. “At home, since he... doesn’t work here anymore... you know because of me.”

Miller shook his head and smiled his sardonic smile. “I’d be happy to,” he said, “It sounds like he and I have a lot to talk about.”

“You’re not going to yell at him are you?” Buffy asked making a worried face, “’cause he’s had kind of a rough few weeks.”

Miller actually laughed out loud, shaking his head again. “I think I’m safer not to comment on that,” he said. “I’ve always liked Rupert personally,” he added seriously, “but I think we both know he doesn’t belong in a high school library. I honestly don’t know how much help I can be with your... projects, but I’ll see what I can do. As for everything else, I’m sure you’ve had enough doom-saying already. I hope it works out for you, I really do.”

“Thanks,” Buffy said. “I think you’re actually the first person who’s said that.”

“Now get out of my classroom,” he said, only mostly joking “before people start talking about us and my wife walls me up in a basement niche.”

****

When Roberta Stott heard the news that Rupert Giles had been compelled to resign, she pursed her lips but said nothing. As soon as she had a moment alone in the nurse’s office, she got out her mobile and placed a call to a number in Brighton. 

“This confirms the worst of it,” she told the elder Mr. Giles. “Mr. Snyder wants desperately for none of this to be true. He’d very nearly have to have proof from their own lips, and they’d certainly never provide it unless they were already set on a path that would make it undeniable. In fact, I’m afraid they may already be married. After the things he said at the hospital on Monday, he left town with her and her mother on Tuesday and got back quite late. I shouldn’t wonder if they’d been to Arizona.”

“How is it that I managed to raise such a fool?!” Andrew wondered aloud. Roberta refrained from mentioning that the absence of a mother might have been a contributing factor.

“He’s rather an old fool to place much blame on his upbringing,” she pointed out instead.

“Humph,” Andrew sniffed. “I suppose younger fools have more excuse to make for their foolishness.”

“I suppose,” said the nurse noncommittally having no wish to dredge up ancient history.

“I think perhaps we’d better keep our suspicions to ourselves for the time being,” Andrew said firmly. “If we’re correct, there’ll be proof soon enough.”

“Of course,” said Roberta. “You may rely upon my discretion. As always.”

When she’d hung up, Andrew didn’t even waste the time to replace his receiver before dialing another number. He had no hesitation about taking so grave a course of action upon Roberta’s word. She had always been a reliable agent, even as a very young girl. It was something between a joke and a bit of received wisdom among the Watching families than St. Agatha’s School for Girls had been founded three miles from Walsington, the traditional Public School of the sons of the Council, deliberately by their enemies in the Catholic Church for the purpose of enhancing the intellectual gifts of the Jesuits and of other, even more secretive Orders at their expense. Andrew had always though that in Roberta, and perhaps a few others they had gotten a bit of their own back.

He called a slightly younger peer of his son’s, the niece of a late kinsman who had once been a dear friend. “It’s happened,” he said. “Be prepared.”

His next call was to Virgil Gaudencio.

****

Willow was waiting to walk Buffy to second period. She brightened a little when she got to tell her Xander’s good news, but it didn’t last long. “I can’t believe they threw him out of school,” she fretted. “But now they’ll have to let him back in, right? Once the charges are dropped?”

“How’s Oz?” Buffy asked, pretty sure they didn’t have to do any such thing.

“Sleeping peacefully?” Willow said with a sort of apologetic squeak.

“Holy crap!” Buffy exclaimed, loud enough to turn the few heads that weren’t already staring at them. News of Giles’ resignation had spread like wildfire through the school in the last three minutes, pretty much confirming everyone’s suspicions about their relationship. Willow nervously recited her justifications for enchanting Oz as they walked into Mrs. Post’s English class seconds ahead of the bell. Buffy assured her it would be alright, hoping it was true. Once again, Willow swore to do no more magic except for undoing magic. Buffy hoped that was true too. She’d have asked how the undoing was going, but Gwendolyn was starting in already.

“Miss Summers,” she said coolly, handing her a quiz paper marked with a large red ‘F’, “you will see me after class, if you please.”Buffy almost asked what if she didn’t please, but then she’d just be doing two things Giles had seriously warned her against. She had to keep biting her tongue all through class, but she managed to avoid active hostilities for fifty long minutes. When the bell rang, Buffy started to leave, hoping the evil ex/Watcher had forgotten she’d meant to hold her over. No such luck. Willow tried to stay too, but the threat of detention drove her away. She could not afford to get locked up before awakening Oz in the morning.

“I suppose you’re pretty proud of yourself,” the older woman declared bitterly the moment they were alone. “Wrecking a man’s career, wreaking havoc on a centuries old institution that holds the thin gray line between humanity and total darkness.”

“I suppose _you’re_ pretty proud of yourself,” Buffy shot back defiantly, “writing your little tests, playing your little games.”

Gwendolyn laughed cruelly. “You don’t know what a ‘test’ is, Child, but you soon will, and if you’re going to live with Rupert Giles, you’ll soon find what it means to play games as well. And not just the kind that end with him shoving his fat, enormous cock inside you.”

“God!” Buffy declared. “You’re just so jealous you could die aren’t you?”

Gwendolyn laughed a wicked, contemptuous laugh. “I’ve had enough of Rupert to last me a lifetime, thank you, Miss Summers.”

It was Buffy’s turn to smile wickedly. She couldn’t help herself. Within a day hundreds of people on both sides of the Atlantic would hear the news. Buffy wanted Gwendolyn to know now. “Summers- _Giles_ ,” she corrected her, “ _ **Mrs**_ **.** ”

“Of course!” Gwendolyn declared with her wickedest laugh yet, “That makes perfect sense!

“He’ll kill you,” she predicted, suddenly serious, as though her dark levity had been switched off, “for less than a handkerchief. You’ll never feel his hands around your throat, but he will. He’s a Watcher. The Council will always come before the Slayer, that’s our way.”

“You’re not a Watcher,” Buffy reminded her, “and he won’t be much longer.”

Gwendolyn favored her with a superior smile. “You don’t stop being a Watcher,” she said, “any more than a dog stops being a wolf when it learns to heard sheep. It’s in the _blood_ ,” she said, “in the _family_ , as you, my little lamb, will soon find out.”

****

Giles spent most of the day writing his last Official Report as Primary Field Watcher. There was actually quite a lot to report besides the facts that he’s impregnated and married his Slayer and lied by omission in his last two reports to cover his transgressions. Somehow, he didn’t think the demise of Angelus or the defeat of Spike’s vampire army would get the attention they deserved. Willow Rosenberg’s magic would get more attention than it deserved, and the injuries that all of Buffy’s friends had received recently would be reviewed in a very harsh light, but this was no time to court an accusation that his confessions were still less than candid.

Of course, his confessions were still less than candid. He hadn’t mentioned David, B.F. Wallace, his conversation with his father, his feelings or intentions toward Quentin, or exactly what had been involved in resolving Buffy’s charges and those of her friends. Naturally, the fact that he was conspiring with Robson and Julian to manage the results of his confession also went unnoted. He also avoided mentioning Gwendolyn as well, but that was a separate case. Robson was conducting a Confidential Investigation. It was his disclosure to manage.

Still, the matters that were disclosed were easily enough to justify any punishment short of death for Buffy and himself. He was putting a lot of trust in a friend to whom he had not always been trustworthy. If his faith proved unjustified, if Robson was ultimately unwilling or unable to protect him, both he and Buffy could be in for a Sophoclean level of disaster. If he couldn’t find a way to get some leverage over Quentin, they were likely in for it anyhow. Gwendolyn might do if he could prove she was reporting to him.

Giles smiled. It just so happened that he knew a brilliant detective with friends in police organizations all over California who might be able to trace their communications. But he’d probably end up like one of those film noir clients who hires a better sleuth than he means to and has all of his own secrets revealed. If B.F. Wallace had half a clue that there was such a thing as Cruciamentum, the only use he’d be interested in making of his police contacts would be to cover up the murder of Rupert Giles.

Well, Giles reminded himself, Wallace wasn’t the only brilliant person on Earth. He also knew one very talented hacker. In this day and age, it was hard to imagine any form of transatlantic communication that wouldn’t leave tracks in cyberspace. Besides, Willow could use something to do to feel useful to the cause, without doing magic. Of course, he’d be keeping Willow in the dark about the exact nature of his problem with Travers, but unlike Wallace, she would stay there. Willow trusted him. She’d take whatever he said about his motives at face value. In a sense, he supposed, he’d be abusing her trust, but ultimately, the results of her work would be something she valued almost as highly as he. The goal was to protect Buffy.

****

It was late evening in London. Phillip Robson sat at a small table in a quiet corner of the reading room of the Council Archives, double checking the work of a young researcher who would soon be seeking recommendation for Enrollment. It was important enough work that it needed doing, but only just. His eye was irresistibly drawn to the door of a much smaller room, a door with seven keys, one of which was in his pocket. He was tempted to confirm something that he already knew within reason, but he liked having the flexibility to truthfully say he didn’t know. When he turned his eyes back to his table he was not alone. The man seated across from him was tall and thin with pleasant, even, unremarkable features and wavy silver hair. “Hello, Milton,” Robson said, his tone casually friendly. “Doing a little research?”

“Only as an excuse to lie in wait for you,” Milton Crowne said, smiling. “I thought you’d like to know that young Ms. Sterling has found a new project besides intriguing to inherit my Seat.”

“Oh?” said Robson, waiting for the punch line. Laura Sterling was the niece of Patrick and the granddaughter of Timothy Sterling, both of whom had held the Facundian Seat prior to Milton’s father. The Crownes and Sterlings had been passing the Seat back and forth for centuries much more fluidly than the Wyndham-Pryces and Robsons so that one would be hard put to say which was the main line of the family. Unless one were foolish enough to let oneself get cornered by Laura, who could explain the superiority of the Sterling claim at great length.

“She’s decided to go after yours,” Milton explained with a mild chuckle, “and she actually expects me to help her.”

“ _My_ Seat?” Robson asked, genuinely taken aback, “I don’t even know that I’m going have a heritable—Oh Good Lord! You mean to tell me that she actually suggests that the Weregelder Seat should pass to the Facundians instead of reverting to the Hippo-Lucianic Line? Where’s the logic in that?”

It occurred to Robson that this sudden interest in the Weregelder Seat might not be a coincidence, but he cautioned himself not to read too much into it without more proof. It was possible that Laura was only prepositioning for the eventual demise of the Line on the widely credited assumption that Rupert would never marry, but there were not likely to be any changes to the Inner Council except the orderly successions of the Flavians and the Gaudencios for at least another ten years. Why rock the boat now if she weren’t aware of the probability that the Seat would be redistributed sooner rather than later?

“She’s not exactly characterizing it that way,” Milton explained, still grinning.

“I think you’re finding this suspense a lot more amusing than I am,” Robson warned his old friend mildly.

“Sorry,” Milton apologized, still very amused. “Laura doesn’t want to claim the Seat for the Facundians, but as a Weregelder.” Which resolved one point and mystified another.

“How on Earth can she claim to be a Weregelder?” Robson asked, reserving comment on how Laura had known to strike now, afraid to give away his own knowledge. “The Sterlings have always been Facundians. She’s _Enrolled_ as a Facundian.”

“My sentiments exactly,” said Milton. “But she has a plausible claim that she _could_ have been Enrolled as a Weregelder. Timothy Sterling was the son of Lillian Giles, who was the daughter of Richard Giles,” Milton reminded him.

“By that logic,” Robson pointed out, “Rupert could claim your Seat.”

“Or Julian’s,” Milton conceded. “That is, if _we_ were the ones about to be Stricken.”

“What makes you think Rupert is in danger of being _Stricken_?” Robson demanded. He didn’t have to fake being shocked. Although he knew full well what the _grounds_ for Striking Rupert would be, the fact that such a drastic option was already being discussed was news to him. If Laura Sterling were merely getting contraband intelligence from Gwendolyn Post, she was counting more chickens than she had eggs waiting to hatch.

“His _father_ is arranging it,” Milton explained, disdainfully. “Apparently Rupert finally has married, if you can believe that, but instead of being overjoyed Andrew’s quibbling about the quality of the bride. He’s counting on my vote for getting Laura her own Seat, at least Julian’s and possibly yours for spite since you won’t be getting it, and Quentin and Dunstan, obviously.”

“My God!” Robson gasped. His respect for Andrew Giles plummeted. He guessed it was time to call his estate agent.

“I was shocked,” Milton admitted. “I know there’s bad blood between them, but still, your son is your son, right?”

Robson thought for a moment. He’d never considered the Sterling claim to the Weregelder Line. It was twice as strong as the Travers claim to the Jacobean Line had been. They hadn’t been Enrolled as Jacobeans either he didn’t think. If Rupert Giles and his descendants were excluded from the succession, by whatever means, the Sterling claim would probably stick. As soon as Julian figured that out, he’d be happy to leave Rupert to his fate. If Quentin, Dunstan and Virgil went along, that was enough.

“I’m afraid you and I are not being shocked by the same things at the moment,” Robson explained gravely, deciding to take Milton into his confidence after all. “Rupert... spoke to me about his marriage. However extreme Andrew’s response may be, there’s more to it than quibbling, but the very grounds that would justify a Strike militate against it.”

Milton grinned, “And they say Watchers speak in riddles.”

“Rupert has married his Slayer,” Robson explained. “She’s expecting his child in November.”

For the first time in a long time, Milton Crowne stopped smiling. “If you’re done being shocked by that, what on Earth are you shocked by now?” he asked grimly. Robson explained the situation with Gwendolyn Post, including both of Rupert’s suspicions as to who had sent her.

“I’d sooner have believed it of Quentin than Andrew,” Milton said, “despite what Laura’s sudden wealth of information seems to indicate. And of course, the Fonts are—or rather were—technically part of the Travers line, both branches of them, come to that. But then, I never would have expected Andrew to plot to destroy his own son like this either.”

“He must feel the disgrace to the family is already irreparable,” Robson said, “He’s running purely on revenge. Rupert tried to tell me so, but I thought he was being paranoid as usual.”

“I knew when he resigned from the Inner Council that he’d given up on the family in a sense,” Milton admitted, “that he’d rather be the last of the Line than have Rupert Seated. But I thought that was based mostly on the assumption that the Line couldn’t carry on past him in any case. But then, perhaps he doesn’t feel the Council would Seat the child of a Slayer.”

“One thing I’m certain of,” Robson said, “Is that Andrew sees Laura’s potential ascension to the Seat the same as we do, not as a legitimate continuation of his own Line, but as a redistribution of the Seat to the Facundians at the Hippolytons expense.”

“At any rate,” said Milton, “we can assume your family will see it that way. At even the suggestion, the strife in the Outer Council will be unimaginable.”

“I agree,” Robson acknowledged, “but the point I’m making is that Andrew literally doesn’t care who gets the Seat so long as Rupert is Stricken. He’s handed Laura a big stick and a motive and to hell with all of us including her. Surely you can make her see that.”

Milton shook his head, “I really don’t think I can. When I came here, I wasn’t that worried. I thought that if Rupert were Stricken, and Laura’s claim was brought forward, all but the Sterlings and a few of the Crownes would vote it down and the Seat would revert as it justly should and that would be that. But now, with a child involved...”

“It’ll look like Rupert’s selling us the Seat to avoid discipline and Laura can come in as the champion of righteousness and put a stop to our corruption,” Robson agreed.

“That’s the plan as it was described to me,” Milton confirmed, “though it makes more sense now. But if you’ll forgive my saying so, it seems based upon an accurate assessment of Rupert’s plans, if his first move was to talk to you.”

“I suppose there’s no point denying it,” Robson acknowledged. “He’d give anything to avoid being Stricken or otherwise sent away from her, and he has something of great value that he doesn’t even want. He’s writing his confession as we speak, I believe.”

Milton was quiet for a moment. “You didn’t have to negotiate with him,” he pointed out. “If not for Laura’s claim, which you obviously hadn’t considered, Striking him before the child was born would have ended the Weregelder Line. The Seat would have been yours.”

“Taken by force that would almost certainly end in violence and death,” Robson pointed out. “Which is what will come of Laura’s scheme as well. She’ll turn the best Slayer we’ve had in ten years into an enemy of the Council even while dividing the Council against itself.”

“So how can this be prevented?” Milton asked.

“No one must have the Seat,” Robson answered. “The Weregelder Line must remain in place, by which I mean the Gileses, not the Sterlings. We’re simply going to have to find some punishment short of Striking that will sufficiently deter this kind of conduct.”

“As I recall a chap named Fulbert had a suggestion for that,” said Milton grinning again.

“Which he may not have been brave enough to employ if his ‘niece’ had had the strength of ten men and the temper to go with it,” Robson pointed out, laughing a little himself.

“He has to be Expelled, obviously,” Milton opined. “Beyond that... it depends on how hard we need to persuade against Striking. How many votes do you think they really have?”

“Well obviously they haven’t got ours,” Robson said contemplatively, “nor Davidson’s, I should think. He’ll see the danger in it right away. Julian will support it. He’ll feel cheated of the prospect of getting our family out of his Line and ready to punish both me and Rupert. Dunstan’s a given. Besides his hatred of Rupert, he puts no value on the life of a Slayer. He makes no bones about how he voted in the Harrow case. If she won’t accept the Strike and fall in line, to hell with her. I’d say about the same of Travers, but he’s more pragmatic. He might be persuaded that making an enemy of the Slayer is more trouble than it’s worth. Though after this... Rupert may well be right to be concerned about his conduct of her Examination.”

“Yes,” Milton agreed pensively, “Andrew arranged for that as well. I should have asked myself why. At any rate, that leaves Virgil. I suppose he’ll be for it, though with some regret.”

“He cares deeply about the Council as an institution,” Robson mused. “He won’t like the idea of letting them get away with flouting our authority. On the other hand, he won’t like the idea of conflict with the Slayer, though he may feel he has no choice.”

“If we want him to let justice go undone,” Milton suggested, “we shall have to convince him that the Heavens may actually fall. Julian may be a better bet. Spite is weaker than integrity. I’ll talk to him, see if I can focus some of his ill will on the Sterlings.”

“Perhaps,” Robson added, “he’ll see the wisdom of leaving the Giles line in place rather than letting Laura get established. She has three children after all, two of them well into their training. That’s a much firmer basis for succession than a barely pregnant Vampire Slayer.”

Milton shook his head, “I don’t suppose it has occurred to either of them that some apocalyptic battle might require her attention say between August and November of this year.”

“I honestly don’t think they’re planning than far ahead,” Robson said.

“I don’t know if you remember the Wood case?” Milton asked.

“I wasn’t Enrolled then, but I heard about it,” Robson acknowledged, “it was the same session as Rupert’s _first_ Discipline Proceeding when I was called to testify for him.”

“God,” Milton laughed, “everyone held our breath for months. And afterward, Dunstan insisted he was going to bring a motion to have the child removed from her, in the face of her insistence that she’d see us all in Hell first. We never heard any more about it, so I assume he either saw reason or got voted down in Secret Session.”

“I don’t remember,” Robson said, “was Virgil on the Council at that time? If we could see how he voted...”

“He wasn’t,” Milton said, “he came on in ’75. It wouldn’t hurt to check and see how the Ezarian voted though. I get the impression that they have a great deal more ideological consistency across generations than the rest of us.”

Robson nodded. The two men rose and entered the room with the seven keys. Heads quietly turned, watching them go, wondering what great business was afoot. What they read in the record of the secret proceedings of the Inner Council for1972 led them to other proceeding in ’50, ’51, ’52, ’55, ’56, ’75 and ’77. By the time they finished reading they knew (among a great many other things) that they had the votes to prevent a recommendation that Rupert Giles be Stricken from the Registry of Watchers.

****

Chief Deputy Greer stood with his face in his hands, getting a hold of himself, letting his heart rate return to normal. Finally, he took a deep breath and sounded the alarm. “It’s Wiftler,” he informed the other deputies grimly. They looked up to see the boy swinging from a rope in his cell, hung by the neck until dead. It was a damned good knot for a kid who’d never been to Boy Scout Camp, or sailed a day in his life, or even watched a rodeo. It was a damned good rope to be lying around a jail cell.

“He must have done it during shift change,” a deputy offered. Greer nodded. His face was pale.

“Cut him down,” said the Sheriff calmly, arriving on the scene. They did. No one commented on the fact that his body was extremely warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... so the whole photo message thing is a total anachronism. Texting yes, photo sharing... not so much. In the 1998 of my memory, this technology ranks as 'something no one I knew could afford', which would not have made it off limits to Cordelia or Giles. In reality, it was something that had been tested and written up in 'Wired' magazine but was not available commercially because of technical issues. My only excuse is that the world has changed so much in the last 16 years that even if you lived it, it's still hard to remember how it all really was.


	9. Karma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Goo Goo Dolls:"Scars are souvenirs you never lose, the past is never far... And don't it make you sad to know that life is more than who we are?"  
> Juliet: "What is Montague?... Oh, be some other name!"  
> Dr. Seuss: "And it should be, it should be, it SHOULD be like that!"
> 
> But it's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II: The Lesser Light

“I’m not going back,” Xander told Willow firmly. “Not back to my folks and not back to that damned school.”

“You know you can stay here as long as you want,” she said, taking a box from her kitchen cupboard to refill Amy’s seemingly perpetually empty feeder. “And I understand if you need to take some time off... I guess. I mean, they can’t let you back in until the School Board meeting anyway. And you can drive my dad’s car if you need to look for work or whatever, but eventually you do have to go back to school, I mean, we talked about the guy that sweeps the floors at the pizza place, right?”

“No, but, see, I’m not going to be that guy,” Xander said enthusiastically. “I’m going to finish school, faster than you guys probably. I got the idea from something Snyder said to Buffy. Adult Ed. There’s a place over in Fondren. They do a semester every three months. The next one starts March 30th, and there’s day or night classes, so you can work at the same time.”

“Don’t you have to be an adult to go to Adult Ed?” Willow asked skeptically.

“I talked to them about that,” Xander assured her. “Since I’m over seventeen and not currently eligible to enroll in my local public school, I qualify. All I have to do is not appeal the expulsion.”

“Which means your transcripts will say you were expelled for rape and attempted murder,” Willow pointed out.

“No they won’t,” Xander countered, “they’ll probably just say expelled.”

“And when they call Snyder and ask him why, he’ll say for rape and attempted murder,” Willow insisted.

“Not _just_ that,” Xander grinned, “there’s also kidnapping and grand theft auto.” Willow gave him a look. “Lighten up, Wil,” he said, “I’m not trying to get into the Midwestern School of Brainy Stuff. All real jobs want to know about high school is you passed. They won’t even know I ever went to Sunnydale. Look, I’ve got it all figured out,” He went on with a very unXanderly sort of earnest intensity. “I took the placement test this morning. They said I just have to take three semesters—or 'trimesters' is what they call them—and I can take the test, the big test, at the end of December.”

“But why?” Willow asked. Her voice was squeaky and confused. “Just to get out of school five months early? What about summer vacation, and prom and homecoming and graduation? Don’t you want to do all that senior stuff?”

Xander gave her an extremely serious look. “Wil,” he said, “I want _Cordelia_ to do all that stuff. She’s way better at it than I am and she enjoys it more too. You know her dad will never let her go back to Sunnydale as long as I’m there. He’ll send her to Kent or Miss Porters or out of town somewhere. She’d hate that. Anyway... I have more important things to do. I’ve gotta be a man and go make some money. Because I’ve already decided. Next summer, right after you guys graduate, I’m going to ask Cordelia to marry me.”

Willow was stunned. The kind of stunned you get from being hit in the head really hard. Or maybe kicked in the gut. She felt disoriented and sick and angry and... disappointed? Why disappointed? Why angry? Add the two together and you get... Jealous.

“Wil,” Xander said, “why are you looking at me like that? Say something.”

“I... uh, I need to get to Oz’s,” Willow mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

Xander put his hand on her shoulder in a gentle but firm way that made her have to look at him or feel like a complete idiot. “Willow, what’s wrong?” he asked.

“Me,” she whined miserably, breaking eye contact again, burying her face in her hands, “I’m wrong. Everything’s wrong.” As she started to cry, Xander wrapped her in his arms. She tried to pull away, but not very hard or for very long. She buried her face in his chest and sobbed while he smoothed his hands over her hair. The guiltier his embrace made her feel, the harder she sobbed. She really was the weakest, stupidest, most undeserving most unclean, not nice and ridiculously selfish person in the universe.

She found herself leaning on him, not really able to stand up, which paradoxically, made her suddenly want to get away from him very much. She banged on his chest with her fists even as he put his arms under hers to hold her up. Suddenly, Willow felt herself lifted off her feet. She felt kind of panicked as she realized Xander was holding her in his arms in a gone-with-the-windy search-and-rescues sort away, but in fairly short order he deposited her on the couch and knelt next to her, holding her hand, staring down at her with confused, innocent, almost fatherly concern.

She pulled her hand away and turned to face the back rest of the couch, banging her fist against it, sobbing, shrieking, keening. She wasn’t thinking about losing Xander to Cordelia anymore. She wasn’t thinking about anything excepted just plain losing. Loosing and hurting and being the hurting looser that she was. She’d broken her life. It was a pile of jumbled bits that didn’t go together or make any sense. She couldn’t fix it. She couldn’t make it work. And no matter what anyone else said, she knew it was her own fault.

****

**From the Private Journal of Peter Travers, Watcher**

_5,January 1925_

_I had the most extraordinary conversation with Helena Giles today! I still don’t entirely know what to make of it. Everything was discussed in the most general and theoretical terms, and yet the subject matter is so shocking I hesitate to set it down even here. It was our birthday yesterday, her twenty fifth and my twenty third, so naturally when I saw her working in the archives this afternoon, I invited her to tea. Straight away we got to talking about how time gets away._

_I was saying how it seems like yesterday we were romping across the moors and floating toy ships in the millpond at Aunt Katherine’s country house, and now here we are, real, actual Watchers like our fathers, and I a married man with four daughters and (hopefully) a son on the way. She started chastising me, in a good-natured way, about putting my ‘poor wife’ through so much in only three years of marriage, and like an idiot I started to protest that I was under some pressure to produce a male heir owing to my father’s Seat on the Inner Council._

_Naturally, she pointed out that her father also held a Seat on the Inner Council and had never expressed any dissatisfaction with the heir he had. Oaf that I am, I pointed out that the expectation was surly that she would marry and have a son to succeed her father, eventually. ‘Who’s expectation?’ she demanded, quite offended. She let me know very plainly that she has every intention of sitting in her father’s Seat and that he supports her utterly._

_Naturally I tried to explain that she had my vote but it was the Inner Council who would have the ultimate say in the matter and that I doubted very much if they’d become enlightened enough in the next twenty or thirty years to sit in Council with someone they couldn’t help but think of as an agent of her husband, that they would see it as either giving him two votes if he were a member or as opening their chambers to an outsider if he were not._

‘ _Well,’ she says to me, with ever so much dignity, ‘who ever said anything about my being anyone’s wife?’ ‘After all, Peter,’ she said, ‘it is the twentieth century.’ It was then that I pointed out that the Council would certainly not seat someone who had no hope or intention of producing an heir. Her response is still so shocking to me that I can hardly record it._

_She told me that, confidentially, she’d been giving that very matter a great deal of thought in the past year or two and that she felt there was only one solution. For a woman to be seated, she told me, first she must be no man’s wife and second, she must have already produced an heir, so long ago that the Equals—who after all would be as much our generation as our parents’—should have had adequate time to ‘be done being shocked’ by the fact! I hardly knew what to say, she seemed so utterly serious._

_She went on to explain, as if the subject were utterly theoretical, as if we hadn’t just been discussing the decent of her father’s Seat, that having a matrilineal Seat might give the Council the ability to invoke certain feminine sources of power heretofore inaccessible to us, that having even a few female Watchers enrolled seemed to be having slight effects in this direction already and that, female power being on the rise with the approach of the Aquarian Age, the Council was missing something by its current composition._

_I tried to make light of the whole thing, saying that under that theory such a woman might have to make just as many attempts to produce a female heir as I was making to produce a male one, which might unduly extend the time it would take her fellow Watchers to ‘be done being shocked.’ She laughed along with me and I thought we had done with that flight of fancy, but then she became quite serious again and told me that she had given that matter some thought as well and that the only solution was to choose a ‘mate’ (that was the word she used!) who had a proven propensity to produce daughters!_

_The look on my face must have been quite alarmed indeed, because she laughed in that merry, haughty way of hers and told me not to make any ‘unwarranted assumptions’ about her intentions, that she was merely discussing ways in which such a dilemma might be solved and that I should be grateful that I had no more difficult a problem in maintaining my line than the sex of my numerous children. ..._

_I was relieved to say the least to be done discussing such an unseemly subject, especially with Helena of all people. To this day, I don’t think she realizes the depth of the feelings I had for her as a boy, or the scars on my soul from having been so roundly rejected at all of eleven years old! She told me then that I was like a brother to her and I suppose she still sees me that way. At times in the last twelve years, I suppose I would have said the same thing, but I confess, even momentarily contemplating the mere theoretical possibility of carnal relations with Helena left me near as confounded by the actual impossibility of such an event as I might have been all those years ago had I any clear concept of what it was I thought I wanted from her._

_Thankfully, it is impossible. Putting aside all objections to my particular involvement in such an enterprise—not the least of them my lovely wife, her powerful father and our significant consanguinity—Helena is much too sensible to gamble her reputation on the prospect that the **modern** Watcher has some sort of enhanced capacity to ‘be done being shocked.’ _

_The Inner Council does not care a whit what century it is, and never will. I can almost imagine them seating a widow, or a maiden aunt with an orphaned nephew for an heir, but no unwed mother will ever hold a Seat, and no living man’s wife either! I’ll admit that Helena’s inability to see a problem as insoluble has been an asset to her in more ways than I ever thought it could be, but this is one conundrum even the Great Queen Elizabeth couldn’t solve, and—to her grave disappointment, I fear—neither will Helena Giles._

****

“I had a good talk with Greg this afternoon,” Giles was saying as he perused the cabinets for something to make for dinner. “I think he’s going to be quite a lot of help to us.”

“Uh-huh,” Buffy said, she hoped encouragingly enough, trying to listen and focus on her Chemistry homework at the same time. She’d spent more of the afternoon than she’d really meant to reading a big chunk of the Slayer’s Handbook, which told her that she’d been doing basically everything wrong for the last two years. It had left her with a strong desire to ‘finish all of her mundane responsibilities in a timely fashion so as to leave her evening free for a thorough patrol of the area.’

“Do you like Indian food at all?” Giles asked. Buffy gave him a look, indicating the open packet of saltine crackers on the table with a sweep of her eyes and nibbling on one. “You’re... erm stomach isn’t feeling too well?” he surmised.

“I’m hungry,” she said, “but also nauseous. I can’t get used to both at the same time. What I really think I want is something made almost entirely of bread, like a pizza or something. And why the heck is a cation positive if it gets that way by losing an electron? Am I missing something here?”

“No,” Giles explained disinterestedly, “the whole of the scientific community missed something, and by the time they noticed, it was too late to straighten it out. Do you really want to order a pizza? It’s our first dinner at home together; the notion of cooking for you had struck me as sort of romantic.”

“Then cook,” Buffy said indifferently, “You mean they got the names mixed up and they just left them that way? That seems lazy.”

“It was the nineteenth century, Buffy.” He lectured, “They couldn’t look at an ion, all they could do was observe it’s behavior. They were able to divide them into two groups and deduce the nature of the opposition between them from their patterns of attraction and repulsion, but there was no way to know which was which. Basically, they had a fifty/fifty chance at it and they guessed wrong. Do you really want a pizza?”

“I don’t care. I’ll eat anything,” Buffy replied, “If they know which one is really positive and which one is really negative, why are they still teaching it the other way?”

“Because the fact of the difference is more important than which is which. If they tried to convert from one set of terminology to the other, it would cast everything that’s already been written into confusion and since not everyone would change their terms, the whole business would become a hopeless muddle. What _do_ you want for dinner then?”

“I _want_ a pizza,” said Buffy, starting to get exasperated, “but I honestly don’t care. Why wouldn’t everyone change if they know what the truth is?”

Giles sighed. So much for romantic gestures of domesticity. “You do realize some people are _still_ using the Julian Calendar,” he pointed out, thumbing through the phone book. “Don’t even get me started on the metric system. No, trust me,” he smiled, “when you get six ‘thousand million’ people agreeing on what to call something, best let it alone. What do you want on the pizza?”

Buffy smiled back, “Pineapple,” she said, leaning up to kiss him as he bent to reach for the phone, “and you’re a good husband. Doing whatever I want is very romantic. It’s still weird to try to remember that the one with the something is negative and the one with the space for a something is positive, though.”

Giles’ grin widened and his voice became an entirely different kind of smug. “Some people find a space for a something to be an extremely positive phenomenon,” he pointed out, dialing the phone.

She tilted her head and gave him a not too seriously intended look. “So that really _is_ all guys ever think about,” she teased. “I don’t know... it still feels wrong to me.”

“If it helps—yes, I’ll hold,” he said, “you might simply choose to think that the words positive and negative mean the opposite in this situation as everywhere else.”

Buffy wasn’t sure if that helped or made it worse. It made the Chemistry more logical but the language less so. She decided to go with the more straightforward ‘we’ve done it this way so long we’re sticking with it.’ She’d have told Giles so but he was ordering the pizza. She was oddly disappointed to hear him ordering two entirely different halves. She hadn’t meant to insist that they each eat something separate for their first dinner at home as a married couple. She didn’t _have_ to have pineapple. They could have worked something out to share.

“I think you’re awesome, just so you know,” Buffy said as soon as Giles hung up the phone, more because they both needed to be reminded of the fact than because the moment they were having really supported it.

Giles smiled delightedly. “That opinion very nearly justifies itself,” he said. “There’s not enough luck in the Universe. It has to be karma.”

****

**From the Private Journal of Peter Travers, Watcher**

_10,January 1925_

_I saw Helena again yesterday and was relieved to note that she was as cordial as ever and had no more to say on the subject of matrilineal succession. But then I dreamed about her last night, in a way I haven’t done in ~~ten~~ 7 years at least. Myrna shook me awake at three a.m., and I have to admit, for an instant, I was shocked to see her there and not Helena. Shocked, and truth be told, disappointed. She told me I’d been thrashing and moaning, she was sure I’d been having a horrible nightmare. She thinks the work is getting to me. What could I do but let her think so! I could almost literally kill Helena for making that little speech of hers the other day, especially her little quip about the propensity to produce daughters, and stirring up all these feelings again. It was hell getting over them the last time, if I ever truly did. Evidently, I didn’t, but I did manage to ignore them for a number of years, I expect I can do the same again._

****

Xander sat on the floor watching helplessly while Willow had what he thought might literally be a complete nervous breakdown. He wasn’t exactly for sure what a nervous breakdown really was, but she was definitely breaking down and it made him a lot more than nervous. He didn’t know what to do. He felt something close to what he’d felt trapped in that tottering car on that dark hillside watching Giles bleeding half to death, except this time he didn’t know where to put the pressure to stop the bleeding. Also, this time it was Willow.

He tried putting his hand on her back, but she shrugged him off, shrieking. Minutes passes. More than a few of them. Several times he tried speaking to her, nothing much of substance, just her name, or “it’s okay,” but it only seemed to make her worse. When she hyperventilated, he went into the kitchen to get her a paper bag. Amy squeaked at him agitatedly. “Somehow I know this is your fault,” he said, feeling a little crazy himself, wishing he believed what he said.

Willow had to sit up to breathe into her paper bag, which finally seemed to calm her down some. She wasn’t screaming or tearing at her hair any more, though she was still holding her face in her hands and weeping. Xander sat down next to her and risked putting his arm around her. This time she let him. After a few more minutes, she wiped her eyes and looked at him. “I’m really okay now,” she said, sounding both worn out and embarrassed but not the least bit 'okay'.

“Tell me another one, Wil,” he said with gentle skepticism. “Come on, what the hell’s going on with you? You didn’t cry like this when your dad died.” Which was still less than three weeks ago Xander suddenly realized. “God, I’m an idiot,” he said aloud. “So much shit has happened the last three weeks, it seems like it’s been a year.”

“At least,” Willow agreed. She felt calmer if not exactly better. It seemed like some of her insides were missing and the places where they used to be were raw and bleeding. “I do miss him,” she said, “but it’s more than that. I’m... screwing up my life. I need help. I need someone to fix everything and make it better. And I know logically, even if my dad was here, he probably couldn’t do that, but it would still be easier if he was, you know?”

“Well,” said Xander resolutely, “I’m here, and you’re not getting rid of me for at least a year, so I’ll tell you how to fix your life if you’ll tell me how to fix mine.”

“Go back to school,” Willow said.

“I am,” said Xander, “at Del Bacco County Adult Ed in Fondren. Quit doing magic.”

“I am,” Willow said, smiling a little, “next month, after Oz is out of the woods, except for finding a way to wake up Mom and de-rat Amy. Go make up with your parents.”

“I’m rubber and you’re glue...” Xander said.

“They love you,” Willow assured him, “they’re just... not very good at it.”

“Again...” Xander said. Willow sort of shrugged and nodded as if conceding the point, but she didn’t really. “I’ll talk to them,” Xander said, “but I’m not living with them. I’m staying here.”

“Good,” said Willow, “I need someone here to look after Mom and Amy and the house.”

Xander’s brow furrowed. “Why are you talking like you’re not going to be here,” he asked worriedly, almost suspiciously. “I mean I know things seem bad, because they are bad, and it’s easy for a person to get depressed...”

“I’m not going to kill myself,” Willow said, mildly annoyed at the ridiculousness of the thought. Then she hesitated, giving him a nervous, apologetic smile, “I’m going to JDC for seventy days starting April 16th.”

“What!” Xander nearly shouted, “Why?”

“Supposedly for attempted forgery,” Willow told him, “but really for what I did to Engels.”

“Damn,” said Xander.

“It’s a lot better than I deserve,” Willow said plaintively. “You should have seen him.” There was a sort of bleak wonder in her voice. “Another day or two and he would have been dead. And anyway it’s still a misdemeanor and it still gets expunged after my birthday, so it shouldn’t even show up when I apply to college. Anyway, JDC’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, Wil, but seventy days is a lot different than three,” Xander pointed out. “And somehow this time I don’t think you’ll get nearly as cool a cellmate.”

Willow sighed tiredly. “Well it doesn’t matter now,” she said. “That’s what’s happening. I’m tired of trying to get away with stuff. I’m tired of hurting people. So can I count on you to hold down the fort or what?”

“Yeah,” said Xander, “I even promise not to be too mean to Amy. I won’t put ground glass in her food or anything.”

Willow gave him the full tilting the head all the way from one side to the other patiently impatient look. “Don’t you think _maybe_ she’s suffering enough?” she asked.

Xander shrugged. “She seems fat and happy to me.”

“Amy put’s on weight when she’s depressed,” Willow pointed out. “Always has.”

“Well anyways you can count on me,” Xander said. “And you can talk to me,” he added extremely seriously, “about anything, whenever.”

“I know,” Willow said, but there were some things she knew she couldn’t. Not now, not ever. Certainly not after he was married to Cordelia Chase.

****

**From the Private Journal of Peter Travers, Watcher**

_27, January 1925_

_Helena sought me out in Council Chamber today and sat by me through the entire meeting. Of course, once we were called into session, we could either of us hardly have gotten up and moved. Thankfully, everything on the agenda was pro-forma, just as Father assured me it would be, the quarterly rubber stamping of the acts of the Inner Council. She said it was odd to watch the new enrollees standing in the position we’d been in three months earlier, but I think she said it just to have something to say to me because the next words out of her mouth were to accuse me, in a half joking way, of avoiding her. I denied it of course, though I think, not very convincingly. What could I say? Of course I’m avoiding her, not that it does me any good! I’ve dreamed of her nearly every night for more than two weeks. I have the miserable feeling that I’m falling in love with her all over again._

****

Milton came around to Robson’s back door and rang the bell. The man himself answered being the only soul awake in the house. They stood and talked in the kitchen by the back stairs. “You may as well call Rupert and have him send that Report tonight,” Milton said, removing his hat but keeping on his coat. “Literally a majority of us already know, or have a notion at any rate, what is happening.”

Robson suppressed a yawn. There was precious little of tonight left on this side of the Atlantic.“What kind of a notion does Virgil have,” he asked.

Milton laughed. “Andrew told him to expect to be approached by you or Julian in an attempt to ‘capitalize on Rupert’s misfortunes.’”

“He’s a clever old bastard, isn’t he,” said Robson with a grin.

“That’s what Virgil said,” Milton noted, smiling. “Not clever enough in this case it looks like.”

“Well, let’s not start getting cocky,” Robson warned. “His legions of worshipers in the Outer Council still think he can do no wrong and we’re miles away from any divulgable proof to the contrary.”

“Haven’t we gotten anything out of Ms. Grantham?” Milton asked.

“She’s admitted to being in contact with Post, and to arranging for her Striking not to be reported to any of our overseas personnel who were not likely to hear of it otherwise, including Rupert Giles,” Robson explained. “But she refuses to say for whom. She’s had a great deal of communication with both Andrew and Quentin lately, but in her position she would. You and I have been in constant contact with her of course. Everyone has. As far as motivational factors, she appears to be paid by Post, though from what ultimate source, I can’t yet say. She does have Andrew to thank for her position, but so do a lot of the Permanent Staff owing to his years in the personnel office.”

Milton laughed, “That was always Stalin’s trick you know. So was turning on his own. Has she any particular connection to Quentin?”

“She’s related to him,” Robson said dismissively, “no more than you and less than I. He was a good friend of her father’s at school. He’s pulled a string or two for her from time to time. Nothing dramatic. At least, none of the ones we know about. We don’t have nearly enough to even privately suggest within the Inner Council that we suspect either of them.”

“I agree,” Milton admitted. “Which brings us back to the original question. What shall we do with Rupert?”

****

**From the Private Journal of Peter Travers, Watcher**

_15,February 1925_

_Yesterday, Myrna and I were compelled to attend yet another dinner party in honor of Lyvia’s recent engagement to Walter, and of course, Helena was there. Of course, every single thing about the evening was themed with cupids and the like. There I sat, between my wife and my sister, facing Helena across the table, looking into her eyes all evening. It was excruciating! If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was under some sort of enchantment. ..._

_Worse still, when the subject of love and marriage finally did, inevitably come up again, and Lyvia, as usual chastised Helena for her obstinate refusal to consider any of the wonderful prospects she is forever finding for everyone in our social set, Helena had a little more to say than her usual pronouncement that she can make her own arrangements if she sees the need for any. She said that she was not sure that she had any interest in ever marrying at all. Of course Walter immediately suggested that her father might be disappointed to hear that...._

_I made an effort to distract Walter with a discussion of horse racing, and he politely reciprocated, but I could tell he was bothered and no wonder. Helena certainly hadn’t sounded like she was joking, and in any event, letting a Line die (which is what he must have thought she meant) is nothing to joke about. Helena is his first cousin after all, on her mother’s side, and I know he is very enamored of the idea that she might marry one of the Robsons and satisfy their desire to get into the Weregelder Seat without the need of any formal action to retake it and the conflict that’s bound to cause within the family as well as among the Council. Thankfully, nothing more was said about it, but I couldn’t help but worry the rest of the evening that Helena is actually contemplating putting her new theory into action...._

****

“You can’t smoke that in here!” The nurse barked crossly. Douglas Ericson turned his head very, very slowly away from the window and looked at her. “Please, Doctor,” the woman essayed again, much more humbly, “the sign says ‘no smoking’?”

Dr. Ericson appeared to give the matter very careful consideration. While he was thinking about it, he took a long drag on his cigarette, turning towards the window again. It was more than a minute before he looked back, but when he did, the nurse was gone. He stubbed out his butt on the windowsill and watched it drop five stories to the rock garden below. It looked like a giant ashtray anyway. There was no putting it off any longer.

“I’m sorry,” he told the woman in 344(B). “It’s exactly what we thought it was. You have stage four lung cancer, small cell carcinoma, very aggressive. It’s already spread to your liver, your stomach, your blood, your brain, your bones. Basically it’s everywhere.” She took it as well as could be expected, probably better than she should have. There were still tears and that hopefully suspicious groping for a loophole. She asked for her prognosis and her options, but didn’t appreciate hearing either one.

“What would you do, Doctor?” she asked finally. Douglas smiled slowly with his eyes and his lips but not his teeth. Visions of firebombs danced in his head. She looked at him, impatiently waiting to be offended by what he said (as per his locally legendary reputation) so that she could be angry at an assailable target. He shrugged. Why not? She’d surely been disappointed enough for one day.

“I think I’d have a smoke,” he said and walked out smiling the much toothier smile that served him in place of a laugh.

“Dr. Ericson?” said a young Englishman with nervous urgency, emerging from the shadows and falling in step beside him as he stepped off the elevator in the parking garage. The doctor glanced at him impatiently. “I must warn you that your life is in very grave danger,” the young man warned him, the sound of wanting to ring his hand clearly audible in his voice.

“Go ahead then,” said Ericson impatiently, not slowing his stride, not lengthening it either. He hit the button on his key fob and waited for a beep that didn’t happen. “What’s the matter?” he asked his suddenly silent companion as he hit the button again. “Cat got your tongue?” Dr. Ericson looked in the general direction of his pre-owned BMW with a vague intention of seeing why it wasn’t cheerfully signaling its unlocked state. About that time, the Englishman found his voice and screamed.

Ericson could see why. About twenty feet further down the row, there was a woman standing on what was left of his car. She was wearing a skin tight black leather body suite and an executioner’s hood. She wasn’t wearing a cape, but something about her stance gave the impression that she should be. It was at once that of a bird ready to take flight and a predator ready to pounce. “What are you waiting for!” the Englishman shouted, panicked, to no one who could be seen, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. “Do it now!”

The woman laughed triumphantly. Dr. Ericson was unpleasantly aware that something very, very strange was happening, that what he understood of the situation did not look promising and that he was not very well positioned to do anything about it. Fuck the prognosis, what are my options? Instinct told him that he could not fight this woman and that fleeing from her wasn’t likely to work out much better. Taking cover seemed like a reasonable first step that he could get started on while he was thinking up a step two. He started for a car ten feet away. He hadn’t covered half of that distance when he felt a breeze blow past his head that should not have existed in the depths of the garage.

Suddenly, the woman was two feet in front of him uncurling herself as she whirled to face him. She was a good head shorter than Douglas, yet somehow she loomed. It occurred to him that if she’d wanted to kill him instantly, she probably could have accomplished that by now. About that time, the woman screeched, something between an anguished macaque and an enraged eagle. A blur of rapid motion sent an indistinct object flying from her hand into the fleeing back of the young Englishman. Judging by the handle that was left sticking out of his crumpled body, the object was an ordinary dinner knife.

“I don’t remember taking any of the good drugs this morning,” Ericson said with a bluff of unflappability, combining the firm, calm tone he’d learned to use on psychotic and demented patients with an acerbic bravado that was strictly verboten in that context. “So I assume this is actually happening. What the hell is it that is actually happening, by the way?” He was glad his hands were in his pockets where at least she couldn’t see them shaking, but he knew his terror must be showing in his eyes by now. He saw something new in her eyes too, however. Curiosity. She found him interesting. Therefore, he stood an outside chance of living long enough for the situation to be acted upon by an unbalanced outside force.

An armed security guard appeared around the end of the row. His gun was not in his hand but on his hip. Douglas felt the mixture of regret and distaste that immediately precedes the crunch of a turtle under the wheel of your car. He was glad he didn’t know the man. There was nothing he could do. His biggest regret was that the homicide did not distract the girl (there was something about her at this proximity that said ‘girl’ more than ‘woman’) long enough to give him any hope of escape. She shook something from her sleeve into her hand and sent death flying to the guard’s heart in two seconds. The wood and fake brass handle that stuck from his chest was suggestive of a steak knife, but could have belonged to any other item of kitchenware.

“If we stay here, we’re going to keep being interrupted,” he pointed out, “I assume you have something more interesting planned for the rest of our evening than randomly murdering bystanders and first responders until you draw enough fire power to leave us both dead?”

“He was no bystander,” the girl all but snarled, jerking her chin in the direction of the now bloodless Englishman. “They’ve been tracking me since Boston, trying to stop me.”

Douglas succeeded in making no comment, even nonverbally, on the irony of this observation. He was mostly just relieved to know he was dealing with a fully sentient being. Something he could talk to, maybe even reason with, possibly trick. “A car might have been useful to you right about now,” he opined coolly.

“I have one,” the killer informed him just a little crossly. “I’m not an idiot. Come on.” He followed her. There was no sense doing anything else.

“So,” Dr. Ericson asked as she pulled the dead bodies of what looked like a couple of middle-aged commandos out of the front seats of a nearby van and dumped them like potato sacks on the garage floor, “what’s on our agenda for tonight?”

“I’m going to kill you,” she said matter-of-factly. “Get in.” Douglas complied. He didn’t bother to point out the problems with her incentive system. She didn’t need his cooperation to complete her stated objective. She merely wanted it as an aid to satisfying whatever curiosity had kept him alive this long. For a moment he contemplated the idea that it might be sexual curiosity. He was a damned sexy SOB if he did say so himself, and the white coat did it for a lot of girls, though admittedly, mostly the kind of girls who thought keeping people alive was good and important.

Physically, this girl was hot as hell, at least from the neck down. But Douglas couldn’t quite stomach the idea of having sex with his own murderer, or anybody else’s for that matter. He noted the presence of three bodies in the cargo area behind their seats, which made seven to her credit tonight that he knew of. Which tended to suggest that he might not have a lot of choice about satisfying her curiosity, whatever it was, as long as not dying remained his top priority. He felt suddenly agitated and uncomfortable in his own skin. It had been a very long time since he’d considered that he might be in any real danger of being raped.

The hairs on the back of Doug’s neck stood up. Boston. Not only had she said it, he could hear it in her voice. Suddenly, horribly, he thought he might know who he was riding with. Are there lumps in your instant karma?

****

**From the Private Journal of Peter Travers, Watcher**

_17,February 1925_

_**God I am in Hell!** _ _I don’t know what to do about this madness! Based on nothing_ _**!** _ _I ought to be able to just shrug it off, but I can’t! I can’t stop thinking about the other night. I have this terrible impulse to go to Helena and apologize, to try to explain things, but what is there to explain, except that I feel more for her than she can know or wish to know? And of course, I am keenly aware that my priorities as to whom I mean to comfort and reassure are entirely wrong. My poor wife has been weeping her eyes out for days and I’m worried about whether or not Helena Giles is slightly uncomfortable with me! I thought of buying Myrna a new rose bush, but then she’ll be certain there is actually something happening, which there is not, outside the limited space between my ears._

_If Helena came to me right now showing even the slightest inclination I believe I could abandon my marriage vows utterly and instantly. I truly hope she’s given no serious thought to this reproductive scheme of hers. As utterly mad as the whole enterprise would be, as much to her detriment, I am not at all certain that I am gentleman enough to decline to participate._ _Especially since I know she wouldn’t let a little set back like that keep her from a goal she’d put her mind to. The only worse thing I could imagine than to be the cause of Helena’s disgrace would be to sit idly by and give someone else the opportunity!_

****  
Andrew Giles sat alone on the hillside in the cold gray light of dawn, his face whipped by the brisk salt breeze, looking out across the Chanel. It was at neither its widest nor its narrowest here though certainly too wide to see the other side, even on a very clear day. The day that was dawning was not very clear. In fact it was so murky he could hardly see the waves breaking on the shore.

He tried to remember what it had looked like on that bright, cloudless spring morning, why he had felt such certainty in the face of something he couldn’t see the other side of. It was too long ago. He wasn’t that person anymore. He’d since lived twice the lifetime of the fool he’d been then. “’Til death,” they’d said, “no matter what,” and really thought they’d meant it. Hell, she probably had. ‘’Til death.’ He almost felt he could have wept to think of it, but his eyes were long unused to tears. They had been even then, but not for the same reason.

It was a terrible thing to be twenty-four years old. At sixteen or even twenty-one, an intelligent person generally has some idea that there are some few things left in the world that he is too young to know or understand properly. But at twenty-four, you think you know who you are, how the world works, your place in it. You’ve grown, you’ve learned, you’ve made plans. You don’t expect to make the same mistakes you’ve successfully avoided for a decade, now that you’re ‘old enough to know better.’

Of course, it hadn’t felt like a mistake when he was making it. They were making love, making life, making light out of darkness; making a better world, a new Heaven and a new Earth. But in the end all they had made was Rupert Giles. A great deal more had been destroyed. Like making coal from diamonds.

That cartoon character he called a wife, that Californian caricature, was another lump of it. It was like the opposite of selective breeding, devolving with each generation, a once proud lineage becoming an obscene joke. ‘How is a Weregelder like a Slayer?’ ‘No one knows where they come from, no one knows what they might do, there’s only one born in every generation, and sometimes, that’s one too many.’

“Oh Helena!” he cried aloud to the originator of the obscenity, “no one ever took you for the fool you were!” But then, it seemed perhaps one person had, at least once. But he supposed she hadn’t felt that she was making a mistake either. If she could look down now from heaven, if there were any such place, what would she think of the man that she had made? Somehow, Andrew didn’t think she’d be too impressed.

Certainly, she would not have stood for his doing anything to harm Rupert. God how she had loved that child! “Love doubles, you know,” she’d said, “with every generation.” She’d pretended it was a joke, but it wasn’t. She’d have killed to protect him, even her own son. On one occasion she had said as much. Of course, he _had_ been a child then. A bright, lovely, basically obedient child with just enough mischief in him to keep things interesting. She’d died before he ever became anything else.

Well he was no such creature now. He was a man and a venal, corrupt, violent, dishonest self-seeking one at that, no matter how many years he had spent pretending otherwise, even to himself. He had made it his life’s work to disgrace and humiliate his father before the only people that mattered to him. As for his present difficulties, they were entirely of his own making. He had no right to demand that his father expend his influence in seeking mercy on his behalf instead of the punishment he so richly deserved.

Andrew had all but ruined himself more than once already seeking mercy for Rupert’s sins and attempting to atone for his own. He’d spent nearly half a century trying to make the best of a calamity of his own choosing, trying to make space in his life to do anything else that would ever matter. But he knew now that whatever else he managed to accomplish, the worst mistake he’d ever made would remain the central fact of his existence. He was nothing and no one but the father of Rupert Giles.

****

**From the Private Journal of Peter Travers, Watcher**

_23,February 1925_

_**God forgive me! I’ve done a terrible thing from which I fear my soul may never recover! Shall I excuse myself and say she drove me to it? It happened three days ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to write it. I’d thought to keep the secret locked in my heart forever, but it’s too large, too heavy a burden.** _

_**Helena came to speak with me at the shop. It was the middle of the afternoon and the place was empty as she knew it would be. I was in the back sorting a box of books Mother had got at an estate sale. Helena sat down and offered to help me but I knew right away that she had something serious on her mind. I asked her what it was, but she told me I already knew, and then I did. She told me I was the only one who could help her, that there was no other man on the Council she trusted to keep the secret.** _

‘ _ **Please,’ she said to me, ‘please Peter, don’t make me go to a stranger for this. It ought to be one of us.’ Not exactly an ardent declaration of love, but I was ready to take it for one. ‘How can I refuse?’ I said, and tried to kiss her and to put my hands on her at the same time. She stood up so fast she knocked her chair to the floor and I very nearly went tumbling after it. She laughed and told me more or less apologetically that she was afraid she’d given me the wrong impression. I was annoyed and confused, but not yet angry, and still very much aroused and expecting satisfaction.**_

_**Then she started** _ _ **explaining** _ _**things to me! Carrying on about science and progress and the twentieth bloody century and modern methods of** _ _ **agriculture!!!!** _ _**I told her I wasn’t interested in agriculture or in playing games either, that this was one time she couldn’t have it both ways. I told her I wouldn’t be her mate and her little brother, that what she proposed to do was nothing short of adultery, however it was accomplished and I wasn’t going to be damned for the touch of my own hand and her kind thanks. She laughed at me in that indignant, superior way she always does when you disagree with her and told me I was being a child, talking of sin and damnation as if it were the Middle Ages.** _

_**By now my blood was boiling. I was humiliated. I was incensed. I felt wronged, cheated and I told her so. I yelled at her and I have to admit, I literally stamped my feet like a child who hasn’t gotten the sweet it wanted, which she pointed out to me, and told me I ought to be ashamed. I told her that if I was going to be ashamed, I intended to do something worth being ashamed of. She slapped my face and told me I could be damned and have nothing for it. I think she was only a little more shocked than I was when I slapped her back and told her that was exactly what I intended to do.** _

_**She fought me like a monster, but somehow, in that moment it only made me feel more justified. I pulled her to the floor and lay on top of her while she kicked and shouted and wept and cursed at me. I know I hit her in the face at least once more, and I remember shouting that she was getting exactly what she’d asked for. I don’t even remember getting my trousers down or her skirt up, but I must have because there I was inside of her. For an instant, I was reminded unpleasantly of the first time with Myrna, when I hadn’t the slightest idea what I was doing nor she any real notion of what to expect, that same sense of entirely too much friction, but I forced my way past it, mentally and physically.** _

_**She cried out then, quite differently from the enraged shouting she’d been doing, a sound I think will haunt me to the day I die, a cry of purest anguish. She stopped fighting me and lay there, sobbing. Her compliance somehow made me even angrier. It felt like an accusation. It’s a wonder I didn’t kill her at that moment. It seems as though I might have put my hands around her throat, but then, I might have only imagined it.** _

_**A minute or two later it was over. I lay down on the floor next to her and tried to catch my breath and to understand what had just happened. I could hardly believe what I had done. I still hardly believe it. I still hardly believe it, but it is the truth, so I will set it down in so many words. For posterity I suppose. I, Peter Travers, raped Helena Giles, my oldest friend, my second cousin, my fellow Watcher and my first and dearest love, by such force and violence as only a scoundrel would use against his worst enemy. Whatever that makes me, that is what I am.** _

_**She pulled herself together faster than I did. No surprise I suppose. She’s the stronger person. Always has been. She tapped me none too gently with the toe of her boot and told me to get up and cover myself, which I did. She’d heard the bell ring, there was someone in the shop. I opened my mouth to ask if she were alright! God the** _ _ **IRONY!!!!** _ _**Never mind the stupidity! ‘Are you badly hurt?’ I asked instead. I had a vague memory of bending her wrist back at a terribly sharp angle when she was clawing at my face, which I now realized was bleeding.** _

_**Helena looked away when she answered me and busied herself twisting her hair back into a bun. ‘I have lost my only friend,’ she said. ‘It hurts a great deal.’ There was no anger in her voice when she said that, only shock and sorrow. It hurt a great deal to hear, because I knew she meant it, and how could she not? Friends don’t rape one another, do they?** _

_**The customer rang the bell again and called out, wanting to know if anyone was in. I asked her to please excuse me! There was a sharp edge to her voice when she reminded me that I wasn’t the one being detained. She was getting her anger back fairly quickly as the shock wore off a little. It crossed my mind that I shouldn’t turn my back to her, but then, whatever she could do to me, she’d have every right.** _

_**The look on the poor woman’s face, standing at the counter with the book she wanted, told me I was nothing like presentable. I got rid of her as quickly as I could, afraid Helena would leave or that the woman would see her and know what I’d done. When she was gone, Helena came out front. She was a pitiful sight. Her eyes were red and puffy and she had a bruise in the shape of my hand across her cheek. I could see that her left eye was starting to go black, and she was cradling her right wrist in her left hand.** _

_**I dropped my eyes. I was ashamed of course, and I had done more than enough to justify the feeling. I guess she could see how badly it affected me. ‘Don’t go jumping off of any bridges,’ she said, ‘I won’t have the responsibility.’ She tried hard to make it sound like gallows humor, but her concern was horribly genuine. She also told me not to tell anyone and she made it clear that was no joke. I told her that I wouldn’t but if she ever did I would support her entirely. Then she accused me of ‘trying to have it both ways’, throwing my own words in my face, and reminded me that I was the last person she could reasonably rely upon to defend her honor.** _

_**I called her yesterday. To beg her forgiveness I suppose, and to see if she was any better for having a couple of days to heal, but naturally she wouldn’t speak to me. The housemaid told me rather severely and as one with great authority that I was to ‘leave Miss Helena be and don’t bother her no more.’ I could tell she had a fair idea what had happened and that I was responsible, though I can’t imagine Helena would have confided in a servant, I suppose they see enough of this sort of thing to know.** _

_**Meanwhile Myrna fussed so over the scratches on my face that I had to tell her it had happened in physical training. She might have believed me until Lyvia came to dinner the next night and talked for an hour about Helena’s black eye and whether she might have gotten it in a lover’s quarrel and then another hour trying to guess with whom. Finally, I said something to the effect that Lyvia was being a fine friend to carry on this way with no better evidence. Lyvia laughed and told me I had no sense of humor, that I was taking an obvious joke as though she’d meant it seriously. She said Helena had actually told her it was only a physical training accident, that she’d let her guard down while sparring with someone who didn’t know when to stop pressing his advantage.** _

_**I could see in Myrna’s eyes that she added two and two then, even if Lyvia didn’t, though I don’t know exactly what sum she came up with. Not the whole truth, I suspect. She thinks she married a better man than that. I suppose she believes the lover’s quarrel version. I suppose I shall let her think so. It’s cowardly of me. It’s unfair to Helena.** _

_**God, I thought I WAS a better man! I ought to be Stricken from the Registry! I ought to be hanged! I suppose it does no good to think that way. I suppose it does no good to do anything but wait for time to pass. How much that’s likely to help I can’t say, especially if, God forbid, Helena actually has conceived a child! God it is madness that I should let myself in for that possibility either one way or the other! Shall I say that I am fortune’s fool? The folly is entirely mine!** _

****

It was well after midnight when Buffy crept into her darkened bedroom and climbed into bed with her husband. “Hello, dear,” Giles murmured sleepily wrapping her in his arms, “how was your night?”

“’salright,” she said with a small kiss. “I got one vamp in the alley behind the Bronze, but for the most part their still keeping a low profile. How’d your night go?”

“I sent the Report,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid we won’t know how it went until we receive the Summons of the Council, even then we might not know much until the Proceeding itself. Robson said he wasn’t worried, but...”

“He’s not the one with something to worry about,” Buffy agreed, snuggling into him supportively. “Well,” she said with both affection and resolution, “same goes for them as Mom, they can make our lives easier or harder, but they can’t stop us.”

Giles sighed worriedly. He tucked Buffy’s head under his chin and pulled her close against his chest, stroking her long blond hair. “Your right,” he murmured, “Of course your right.” An ironic smile flickered across his face unseen in the dark. “... from here to eternity,” he said.  His unseen expression became grim as he brooded on the truth or falsity of the word he was omitting. In his mind he saw a pair of pale green eyes, staring blindly into the void.

****

**From the Private Journal of Peter Travers, Watcher**

_**29,March 1925** _

_**GOD have mercy on my SOUL!!!** _ _ **Helena** _ _**came to me today! I knew her and I knew her not. She was a stranger to me! She came to the house while everyone was gone to Church, which shocked me. I suppose she knew I’d stopped going. I didn’t notice anything strange about her at first. She was dressed the same as ever in one of those calf length ‘modern’ women’s linen suits and her hair up in a bun under her Sunday hat. I hardly knew how to greet her, I finally just asked her to come in.** _

‘ _ **Good grief, Peter’ She said, ‘if I didn’t know any better I’d think I was the one who’d attacked you, the way you’re acting.’ There was something in her voice, a sort of casual contempt. She might have been discussing the weather with someone she didn’t much care for. I tried to apologize for acting nervous or for making her feel uncomfortable or something along those lines. She laughed at that, a laugh that sounded very unlike Helena. From that moment, I was very concerned about her, but I didn’t think it would help to say so. Instead I asked her why she’d come to see me.**_

‘ _ **It’s been over a month since you raped me,’ she reminded me matter-of-factly, as if I could have forgotten! ‘I thought you’d want to know the results,’ she said. I hung my head, I couldn’t look at her. I waited for her to say the words. ‘I’m not pregnant,’ she said and laughed that strange, brutal laugh again. I caught my breath, stunned. I still felt tense, not quite able to believe it. ‘To everything there is a season, Peter,’ she said to me, still sounding at once hostile and amused yet within hailing distance of total indifference. ‘I could have told you the timing was not the best.’**_

‘ _ **Thank God!’ I said, relief setting in at last. She laughed again, sharper, crueler. ‘Do you think it’s as easy as that?’ she asked. The HARDNESS in her eyes and in her voice chilled me, it truly did. I didn’t understand what she meant and I told her so. ‘You promised to give me what I was asking for,’ she reminded me. ‘You failed in that, but the time is now more to my purpose and I will have what you have promised me.’**_

‘ _ **God have mercy!’ I gasped, and I literally fell to my knees right there in the front entryway. ‘It’s not God you need to beg for mercy, Peter!’ she scolded me bitterly, ‘It’s not God you have wronged. Your soul’s debts are owed to me and you will pay them on my terms.’ I told her that she wasn’t thinking clearly, that she was courting her own ruin. She gave me that horrible laugh again and shook her head. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said, ‘but you don’t have to.’ Her voice was hard and casual again. ‘Get up,’ she said to me, ‘we haven’t got all day.’**_

_**It’s difficult to explain why I couldn’t refuse her. It was not so much I felt she was entitled to what she demanded (how can a madman be entitle to his madness) it was more I felt I deserved to have to comply though it did only harm and no good to anyone. That sounds mad when I set it down, but that’s the way my mind was running. I got up on my feet and I told her I was hers to command, supposing that we were back to exploring the practical applications of modern methods of agriculture. I asked her how the whole business was expected to work.** _

‘ _ **Do you really think it could be that easy to redeem yourself?’ she asked sounding positively diabolical. ‘No, Peter,’ she said, ‘you will sin and be damned and go on sinning until I tell you you have paid the debt you owe me.’ It is impossible to describe the combination of horror and desire and disgust that I felt when I realized what she intended me to do. I tried to tell her that wasn’t what she wanted. What she did next scared the hell out of me. Helena put her hand on the crotch of my trousers and squeezed my manhood to the point that it was more than a little painful. ‘Don’t tell me what I want, Peter.’ She said quite calmly, then laughed a merry, haughty Helena laugh, which startled and confused me.**_

_**She ordered me to follow her upstairs and she lay down on my bed, fully clothed, waiting. I stood there like an idiot, not sure what to do next. ‘Your wife will be home in an hour,’ she reminded me impatiently. I could see she wasn’t intending to make love with me in any active sense. She expected me to do in cold blood what I had done in the heat of passion, to violate her while she lay there neither inviting nor resisting me. At first I truly didn’t think I could manage it, and I told her so. ‘I have confidence in you, Peter,’ she said with hard, flat heavy irony.** _

_**I could hear the clock in the upstairs hall ticking. I wanted her gone before Myrna and the girls came home for certain. In fact, I suddenly remembered we were having guests for lunch, Myrna’s Aunt Clara and her Uncle Archibald. Who sits on the Inner Council with my father and Helena’s! Just imagine! Clearly, I had to do whatever I was going to do quickly. Somehow I didn’t think turning her away unsatisfied would be a swift process.** _

_**Without looking at her, I stripped myself from the waist down and walked over to the bed. Helena gave a contemptuous sort of snort that made it pretty clear she was unimpressed with the relevant parts of my body, which of course, does nothing to improve them. It did make me a little angry with her, which is a feeling that I have noted lately tends to push guilt and shame out of its way. I pushed her skirt up and found that she wasn’t wearing anything under it. I lay down on top of her and rubbed my unimpressive parts against her much more inspiring ones. I tried to ignore the fact that her body was as ridged as a two day old corpse. I unbuttoned her jacket and blouse and slid my hands under her camisole. I closed my eyes to keep from seeing the tears in her eyes, the hard set of her mouth, her hands twisted in the sheets with her knuckles turning white. I squeezed her breasts and told her that if she let me kiss them I thought it would speed matters up a great deal. She told me to do whatever I liked. Again her tone was one of mingled indifference and contempt, but I took her invitation at face value and was soon able to do what was required of me.** _

_**As soon as the task was finished and we’d gotten our clothes back on and the bed clothes sorted out Helena left. I pray God will let that be the end of it, but I fear not. Either she will conceive and bear my child, which is no end of trouble in any sense, or she will be back again when the time is again to her purpose.** _

_**What worries me most of all is what is becoming of** _ _ **Helena** _ _**!... In some ways, she was the same old practical Helena. ... But she retained her newfound tendencies towards brutal indifference and being amused at things that are not funny.** _

_**The last thing she said to me was that God was likely to be so offended at our sins that he’d pick this moment to give me the son I’d been begging for and that he’d probably be a scoundrel and disgrace us both! Then she laughed that horrid, brutal laugh and kissed me on the forehead as she used to do when we were children. It makes me viscerally ill to think what those poor children have come to and that I have no one to blame but myself!** _

****

Dear God, No! Don’t let this be her! With a stab of self contempt Doug realized he was as near to literally praying as he had been in almost twenty years. He smiled at his own stupidity. Our Father, Who Aren’t in Heaven, Hollow be thy name... For all he knew, Dr. Ericson told himself, she might just as easily be the emissary of some eccentric crime-lord who really, really needed a good Oncologist. He just had to talk to her a little. She’d say something inconsistent with the crazy notion that was currently infesting his warped and perverted brain.

“So, why do I get the short straw?” Douglas demanded, sounding a little angrier than he meant to and a lot less scared than he felt.

“The wages of sin,” said the masked killer sardonically.

“In that case,” said the doctor dryly, “I recommend napalm. Or nerve gas if you can get it. This seems a little more focused than that.” Please, God, don’t let it be her. Please, please, please! I’ll light a million fucking candles. I’ll build you a goddamned hospital!

“You screwed my mother,” his captor clarified, “about nine months before I was born.” Damn.

“Believe me,” Douglas said, actually managing to sound quite a bit like he didn’t give a shit, “I am kicking myself.” It had to be her. There was no one else. She was too old to be anyone else. He was too young.

“I bet I can kick harder,” the kid said with a kind of viscous cheerfulness. She could be lying. She could be mistaken. But she wasn’t. He could hear the smile in her voice. He could see the smile on her face. But the face he was seeing was only four and a half years old.

They drove on in silence for a while. Soon they were leaving the city streets behind, heading deeper into the desert. “I’m sorry,” Douglas said quietly. He was. He felt as hopeless, as helpless as he had at any time in his life, even back home in Boston. And as sad. Sadder.

Faith laughed out loud inside her leather hood and slapped him on the back almost affectionately. “That’s a good one, ‘Uncle Doug’” she said, “tell me another.” 

“What the hell happened to you Faithy?” he whispered, sick with dread and regret.  His sense of the situation was that she still had every intention of killing him and that there was still damn near nothing he could do about to, certainly nothing short of killing her first. Even at that, he didn’t like his chances.

“What the hell did you think was happening to me, Doug?” Faith demanded, her tone still viciously cheerful. “You think Mom and her husband of the month bought us a big house in the suburbs? You think I was throwin’ slumber parties and ridin’ a pony? By the way, love the Beemer, Doc,” the edge was coming out in her voice more and more now, like the bitter aftertaste of an artificial sweetener.

“It’s used if that makes a difference,” Douglas said dryly. What the fuck did she want him to say? Lennette was supposed to be taking care of her.

“I know the feelin’,” Faith was saying. Doug barely heard her.  Lennette! Lennette! God, Lennette!

“Faith?” Douglas asked quietly, struggling to sound even ironically calm and casual, “where’s your mother?”

“I stomped her to a pulp, Doug,” Faith informed him, her hard bright voice a much better approximation of ironical detachment, or traumatic dissociation more likely. If he’d have asked her _how_ Lennette was he could have told himself she was using a conventional exaggeration. But he hadn’t and she wasn’t. Whatever was wrong with Faith psychologically was not the only thing that was extremely strange about her. She could do things literally that other people could only do metaphorically.

Douglas must have looked as stricken as he suddenly felt because Faith laughed bitterly. “Go ahead, cry about it!” she taunted him. “You loved her so fucking much! You sent her a postcard a month for almost a whole goddamned year!”

“Fuck you!” Doug shouted, suddenly a lot more angry than sad or scared. “I was seventeen years old; you think I’m gonna turn down a full fucking scholarship to Medical School so I can stay home in Southie and sleep on the goddamned couch while I beg my fucking step-sister to divorce her husband and marry me? ”

“Oh, no, I understand,” Faith assured him acidly. “Mom explained it to me. ‘ _Doug_ deserves a better life than this.’ ‘ _Doug’s_ a goddamned genius.’ _Doug_ gets to go play Doogie Fucking Howser while I get to watch Mom bounce from one old drunk to another until all of a sudden one day ‘mirror mirror on the wall, get the fuck out kid, you’re too much competition’!”

“How well I remember,” Doug replied, bitterly amused. History repeating. “I don’t guess you bothered to kill Les and Wanda while you were at it?”

Faith slammed on the brakes forcing the van to a sudden stop in the middle of the highway. Douglas was surprised to learn that he’d actually worn a seatbelt—an unconscious response to his very excusable sense of vulnerability he guessed—and therefore had not gone through the windshield. “You think this is fucking funny?” she demanded, “You think we’re bonding, here? Having a little back and forth about our own personal fucked up childhoods? Comparing scars? You ditched me, Doug. Four fucking years old and you goddamned ditched me.”

“So you’re gonna kill me for that?” Douglas demanded.

Faith laughed and shook her head. “You just don’t get it, do you? I sat by your fucking radio every night for four years, Doug, just talking to all the truckers like we used to do. And you know, after a while, I figured out that Mom was right about the fact that you can’t read Arizona from South Boston, but I just kept hoping, you know maybe I’d pick you up coming back into town, maybe for the summer or maybe coming for Christmas to surprise us, and I’d be the first to know! Then one day, it just quits working. All zeros, no signal, so Mom just throws it in the trash, like it’s nothing.

“Alright, no big deal. Cause by then it’s just one more year 'til the great Dr. Doug gets done with medical school, so I figure I’ll get a call maybe a letter telling me you’re coming, you know, just for a visit to see how we are, and I’ll be able tell you it’s not okay here, and that you need to take me away with you. Cause by now I know you’re my Real Dad, cause Mom and Jerry yelled about it in some pretty convincing detail when he left us the first two times. And then, he brought it up again a few years later when he really, really wanted to screw me, but—”

“You know what!?!” Doug yelled back, cutting her off, “I’ve heard enough of this crap! You wanna kill me? Kill me! I can’t stop you. But do you really expect me to listen to all your fucking reasons and what? Sympathize? Agree with you that I need to _die_ tonight? I mean, what the fuck is your diagnosis!?! I don’t want to die! I don’t deserve to die, either.  Not any more than most people anyway.  Less than you do, probably, you self-righteous murdering bitch!”

Faith slapped Douglas casually, effortlessly on the nose the way you would swat a dog with a rolled up newspaper. His face exploded in pain. Suddenly his nose was broken and bleeding. “I don’t like being called a bitch,” she said coolly.

“Well _I_ don’t like being held hostage and threatened with death!” Douglas squawked nasally. “I don’t like having pretend along with you that _my murder_ doesn’t really matter, ’cause it sure as shit matters to me! So does your mother’s, by the way, whatever you think! God! I used to think, you know, at least one good thing came out of that goddamned mess! You were such great kid! Now look at ya! You’re an honest-to-God monster!”

“Well, Congratulations, Dr. Frankenstein!” Faith nearly sang, back to that horrible tone of bitter, mocking cheerfulness, stomping on the gas and sending the van hurtling through the night once again, “I’m still your baby!”

****

**From the Private Journal of Peter Travers, Watcher**

_**26,April 1925** _

_**Helena left me only moments ago! I’m so ashamed I wish I could die!!!! I had her again, or she had me, I honestly don’t know which! She seemed angrier than the last time and certainly no saner. I’m coming to fear that she will never truly be herself again. Dear God! I have driven her mad and I am preying upon her madness and yet I feel as though I am the one being consumed. I feel like I am sucking evil at the breast of a demon. I don’t know how to make this madness** _ _ **STOP** _ _**!!!!** _

_**I love her, that’s the most ludicrous part of the whole thing. If I knew what to do to help her, I would do it. I don’t dare to refuse her. God only knows what she might do! I can’t imagine how telling anyone could help. What can anyone do for her? She sure as hell isn’t going to talk to the vicar about it, is she, though I’ve taken up praying again, an activity she never thought much of. I found myself doing it today while I was inside of her! Calling upon God for mercy in mid sin! Thankfully, not out loud, though I shouldn’t wonder if that isn’t the next step! If this keeps up much longer, I’ll be quite as mad as she is.** _

_**Perversely, I hope she actually has conceived. It’s a terrible thing to wish on an innocent soul, to be my child and Helena’s, especially now, but I see no other way to bring this macabre mockery of a love affair to its conclusion. If only we could stay away from one another for a few months, maybe we could both get ourselves sorted out.** _

_**Bloody Hell, the Council meets for a week starting tomorrow! What in God’s name am I going to do?** _

****

“The sun’s up,” Willow said, her voice vibrant with hope and relief.

“Wait a little longer,” Connie advised. “Let the moon go down. Ken says it agitates them, even when they’re normal again on the outside.”

They waited. Half an hour passed. “It’s time,” Willow said nervously, suddenly worried that for some unknown reason it wouldn’t work. Or maybe for some know reason. Like the things she’d done and felt for others. Like the things she never wanted him to know. Near panic now, she stood and leaned over Oz’s sleeping form. She was desperate to have him back and yet terrified to attempt to revive him, terrified of living with the knowledge that it hadn’t worked. Connie was staring at her expectantly, looking near sick with tense anticipation.

“Could you give us a minute,” Willow said finally. Connie nodded. Looking more nervous than ever, she walked out of the room and shut the door. “Here goes nothing,” Willow murmured. Then kneeling by Oz’s bedside, she removed his oxygen mask. “Oh my sweet love,” she whispered, kissing him gently on the lips, feeling like she might throw up, “come back to me.”

Oz moaned and stirred and began gasping raggedly for breath. With a mixture of joy and panic, Willow hurriedly replaced his oxygen mask and took a hold of his desperate grasping hand. “He’s awake,” she called out to Connie, who hadn’t moved an inch from the bedroom door. “Dial 9-1-1.”

****

**From the Private Journal of Peter Travers, Watcher**

_27,April 1925_

_It was beyond bizarre seeing Helena in Council today. She behaved herself perfectly, and I suppose it bears mentioning given the contents of this Journal, so did I. It’s as though we were two different people from those who met at my house yesterday! By concerted effort, we managed to sit nowhere near each other, nor directly in one another’s line of sight. The only words we spoke to each other all day were those we each addressed to the entire meeting. I almost didn’t mind being in the same room with my father and hers, though I had been dreading that circumstance for weeks._

_I was relieved to see that she was CAPABLE of showing proper restraint and decorum and in general being her usual cool, professional, practical self. And at the same time, it left me with the sickening feeling that what I have been calling madness is actually malice. Helena is not insane, nor is she merely angry with me. She HATES me! Nor can I find fault with her for it. How incredibly sad this all is! I want so very much to turn back time to the last day that Helena loved and trusted me, to be her friend again. I can’t. I have lost my truest and best friend, and I have done it to myself._

_One thing I am certain of, I can never again lay a hand on Helena. I have lost all of my excuses. She is quite capable of self control. It is I who have been lacking in that respect all along._

****

Willow sat for a long while on the cemetery wall before she noticed a familiar presence at her side. She was quiet for a few minutes longer, watching the still face of the marble woman in the early morning light. “Don’t you have someplace to be on a Saturday morning?” she asked finally.

Rabbi Mike smiled. “Not for a while yet. What’s troubling you, child?”

Willow was silent for another long moment, and when she spoke it was more an avoidance of his question than a response to it. “Why is there a statue of a woman in our cemetery?” She asked.

“I’ve been in Sunnydale a couple of years now,” the young cleric said. “I’ve learned to pick my battles. There are thing in this town—not more powerful than God, of course, nothing is more powerful than God—but more powerful than... the faith of some of his poor messengers on Earth will allow us to combat. ”

“So, there are thing here for a jealous God to be jealous of,” Willow summarized grimly.

“There are,” Mike admitted. “In fact, I had the impression you might already know that.”

“Is it true what they say about my mother’s family?” she asked. “Are they... we... witches?”

“I’ve hear that,” he admitted. “It was all before my time. I do know it was the... rest of the town... the Christians, who did... what was done. The old women in the congregation speak very highly of Johanna, and her mother,” he nodded towards the statue, “even to this day.”

“How serious is this business about cursing people to the third and fourth generation?” She asked.

“Pretty serious,” he said. “I truly believe that. But I also believe our God is merciful.”

“Then why isn’t _He_ there when I need something,” Willow asked. “Why do I have to... make the choices that I do?”

Rabbi Mike gave her a sideways look. “If you know you are doing wrong, then don’t do it,” he said simply. “If your sins result in... difficulties. If these difficulties tempt you to sin further, I don’t think you can blame God for that.”

****  
 **From the Private Journal of Peter Travers, Watcher**

_**28,April 1925** _

_**Dear God I can hardly believe what I am about to write! This morning Helena dragged me into her father’s office and forced me to have sexual relations with her by threatening to expose me to the Council as a rapist! I was appalled! Especially after the realization I came to yesterday. I have the horrible feeling she’s been waiting patiently for me to say ‘no’ to her so that she could violate my will as I did hers. I don’t think she was entirely satisfied in that regard. I can’t help or hide the fact that I want her desperately regardless of the circumstances. I suppose she can take some comfort in the fact that my wanting her, even** _ _ **enjoying** _ _**her, doesn’t change the fact that I detest being compelled to act against the dictates of my conscience. I feel angry towards her and then I feel sick with myself for feeling angry towards her, which I suppose is exactly how she intends me to feel, which makes me angrier and sadder and guiltier still. I’ve lost her, I’ve destroyed her. I’ve turned her into a monster! A monster that is devouring me body and soul!!! I pray for this to end.** _

_**I’m tempted to confess to the Council just to put a stop to it, but I don’t know what will become of my wife and children if I am Stricken from the Registry or, God forbid, if I should be killed or imprisoned. Myrna can hardly return to her father’s house, her parents being dead. I suppose she could stay with my father and the both of them shun and despise me. That’s really the best that could happen. At least then the girls would remain eligible to be Enrolled or to marry among the Watching families if either of those things is what they want. If my wife should take a notion to stand by me, if she should insist upon living in poverty and obscurity with the children, cast out by all our friends and relations, while I languish in prison somewhere or in Council Detention, unable to comfort or provide for them, I would be guilty of as much harm in my confession as my sins. Even in my father’s household, they would be humiliated, and a constant reminder to my parents of their own shame at having inflicted me upon humanity.** _

_**Dear God I Pray, don’t let the child of this madness come into the world! I fear I should hate him the whole of his life. I fear what Helena would do to him, what he might become! A verse of scripture keeps running through my head. ‘The sins of the fathers will be visited upon their children unto the third and fourth generation.’ If I am to be damned, let me die and be damned. Don’t make me responsible for the damnation of my children’s souls.** _

****

He was sitting in front of Willow’s house in the kind of vividly nondescript vehicle that cannot fail to attract attention. Giles pulled the convertible to a stop along the curb behind him. He had a feeling who it would be before he ever rolled the window down. “I was told I might find you here,” Quentin said.

“I won’t ask ‘by whom’,” said Giles coolly. “You’ve come a long way just to deliver a summons.”

“Actually,” Quentin said, “I’ve been in America for days. I’m on my way back to London. I was called home suddenly last night for a special meeting of the Inner Council to be held tomorrow, the purpose of which, I gather, you are already aware.”

“Yes,” said Giles, looking him very deliberately in the eye, “I am.” The date they’d chosen to meet, March 15th, struck him as needlessly ominous, but he supposed it was simply the soonest they could manage it.

Quentin sniffed contemptuously, disbelievingly, shaking his head. “Shameless as ever, I see,” he said pompously and, in Giles’ opinion quite ahistorically.

“What do you want?” Giles asked calmly, not bothering to argue the past.

“I was told you wanted to speak with me,” Quentin informed him, “though if you’re going to ask that I not vote to Strike you from the Registry, I’ll warn you, you are wasting your breath.” Giles was puzzled. Robson must have let Quentin know he wanted to speak with him, but why would he do that? He wasn’t nearly ready to discuss the Examination, not until he could find a way to put pressure on him. The investigation into Post was as yet inconclusive. There was always one thing he could have used, but he wasn’t nearly that desperate yet. He wondered if Robson were somehow trying to prevent him from tampering with the Examination by forcing him to negotiate from such a weak position.

“I never asked you to come here,” he said, turning to continue walking towards Willow’s front door. “I have nothing to say until the Proceeding.”

“As Examiner,” Quentin said blandly, “I have a great deal of discretion as to not only how but _when_ to test your Slayer, or, I should say, your wife.”

Giles turned and looked at him. Quentin’s face gave nothing away. “If you want me to do something,” he said, “ask. I don’t need to be reminded that you have a gun to Buffy’s head.”

“Were I in your position,” Travers warned him sternly, “I’d be more careful about denigrating the Council and its traditions.”

“You’ve told me how you intend to vote,” Giles reminded him coolly. “As for accelerating Buffy’s Examination, try it. I think that’s the one thing that could actually get you removed as Examiner.”

“You’ve never understood me, Rupert,” Quentin replied. Giles merely looked at him impatiently. “Nothing in the Protocols requires that the Slayer be examined on her birthday. It’s traditional, but the actual language if you’ll recall states—”

“‘When the Slayer shall have attained the age of eighteen years, in that year shall she be Tested and Tried by the Rite of Cruciamentum,’” Giles finished. This of course was the very thing he had meant to discuss with Quentin as soon as he was in a position to discuss it effectively. In the early centuries of its use, the time of the Examination had varied a great deal, but by the thirteenth century the consensus had been that it should be gotten over with as early in a Slayer’s career as possible. Still, everyone knew that the choice of when in the given year to conduct the Examination was up to the Examiner. Quentin must be seeking to extract something truly onerous from him to have come in person to extend this extraordinary carrot. He was generally one to send someone with a stick.

“It also states that when a Slayer turns eighteen within a year of the previous Slayer’s death,” Quentin reminded him, “the time for Examination may be extended up to one year at the Examiner’s discretion.”

Hope and hatred struggled to replace the sudden shock that Giles felt. Quentin certainly had his attention. He’d never thought of Kendra as the ‘previous Slayer’ to Buffy. The Protocols made no distinction between previously called and previously deceased. Up to now they had been the same. Effectively, Travers was offering to add two years to Buffy’s life... barring vampires and other everyday supernatural evils. “What would I have to do?” Giles asked cautiously, keeping all of his emotions in the boxes where they belonged.

“I’ll give you a choice,” Quentin said. “Put an end to the pregnancy. Stay with her; make sure it doesn’t happen again. Or, leave her and take the child.”

It was the second option that struck Rupert swiftest and hardest, like a fist of horror and compacted rage, but on an instant’s reflection the first was at least as sickening. He laughed bitterly. “Just so we’re clear,” he said, “If I betray her, you won’t kill her until at least January of 2000, is that what you’re saying? If I kidnap or...eliminate my own child to keep him from his mother, you’ll let her live? How magnanimous of you! I’ll take my son to London and leave his mother to her destiny! It’s not as though a child really needs a mother for anything!”

“Sleep on it,” Quentin said with apparent indifference.

“Go to Hell,” Giles replied just as calmly.

“By the way,” Travers added, “I have been authorized by the Council, on the basis of the contents of your last Report, to relieve you of your duties immediately. You’re fired.” With that he rolled up his window and left.

****

**From the Private Journal of Peter Travers, Watcher**

_25,May 1925_

_I saw Helena in church yesterday. I suppose she knew I’d be there with Myrna and the girls as I have been every Sunday for a month. She knows everyone I know, everywhere I go everything I do. Of course, half the people we both know were there, including my parents and her parents. For the most part she left us in peace, but I knew she was enjoying my anxiety over the possibility that she would do otherwise._

_The absolute worst moment came after the services when Aunt Katherine called us over to where they were sitting to speak with her. She thanked me, in an only half joking way, for being such a ‘good influence’ on her granddaughter, explaining that Helena had credited me with inspiring her to return to church. Myrna looked angry and embarrassed, but Helena seemed terribly pleased with herself. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’ve been looking for a good opportunity to thank you myself.’ I was shocked to see that her_ _ **father** _ _shot her a disapproving look when she said that, which made me think that he has some inkling what is or was going on between us. He can’t possibly know the full story. Surely, if he did, he would be saving his pointed looks for me rather than Helena to say the least. ‘I hardly think that’s necessary,’ I said, more curtly than I’d meant too, feeling both angry and ashamed myself. I think Aunt Katherine was a little taken aback, but Helena just smiled._

_Myrna and I took our leave as quickly as we politely could. We drove home in total silence, both of us feeling utterly humiliated. If she said a dozen more words to me yesterday or today, I can’t tell you when. I’m hopeful that Helena may not actually have a strategy for having her way with me this month since I’ve foreclosed the opportunity she had been relying on. I’ve also gotten in the habit of taking little Emma to the Shop with me and even to the Council Building. She’s closer to three than two and a half now and tells everything she sees uncensored and at a high volume._

_Still, I’ve no doubt by next month Helena will think of something, even if it’s as simple as demanding my presence under threat of exposure. I think I had better arrange to be far from London for several days when the time is next likely to be to her purpose. To do so, however would mean to be away from Myrna at the time she is likeliest to deliver, though I’m sure I could get mother or Lyvia to stay with her and I could probably manage to find some Council related business to excuse my absence._

_Of course, it is entirely possible that Helena is already pregnant. If so, there is nothing I can do to help the situation, but I can’t help but think if that were the case she’d be eager for me to know so that I could be horrified by it. Well, if it hasn’t happened already, I mean to see that it doesn’t. That’s the best I can do at this point, so I suppose it will have to be good enough._

****

“Not that I’m complaining,” Joyce said to her daughter, “but why doesn’t Rupert get to share in the joy of packing and sorting all of these things?” They had pretty much finished with Buffy’s room and were now working their way through the contents of the attic.

Buffy shrugged. “He said he had some things he needed to take care of. Besides,” she added, holding up a flimsy red hooded cloak from one of the boxes, “if he had to see this, he’d be traumatized for life.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Joyce said dryly, trying hard to be amused and not melancholily nostalgic. Halloween, 1993; the last trick or treat. Buffy had gone as Little Red Riding Hood and Hank as ‘a busy executive who was lucky to get home in time to go, let alone change clothes’. Joyce had been so glad to have the evening to herself, so glad to sit down with a warm mug of herbal tea and enjoy a little time alone for once. Well, she guessed there’d be no shortage of that from now on.

Buffy was rolling her eyes. “That’s sooo funny, Mom,” she said with mild sarcasm. She hadn’t noticed anything.

“Do you... um... have any plans... for dinner?” Joyce asked, trying to sound casual.

“We’re supposed to meet up at Willow’s,” Buffy said distractedly, still focused on the contents of the box, “since she’s the only one of the gang that’s still on a curfew.”

Joyce was confused. “Won’t Sheila mind?” she asked. “Won’t she wonder what you’re all doing there?” She refrained from asking what Willow’s mother would think of the presence of Buffy’s husband specifically. Nonetheless, Buffy’s failure to meet her mother’s eyes seemed to become more active and deliberate.

“She’s... um... not... not exactly around as much... lately,” Buffy said. Joyce sighed. She guessed things between Willow and Sheila were still pretty bad if Sheila was finding ways to avoid coming home.

“Do you still want me to go with you on Monday?” Joyce asked after a minute or two of silence. “To Dr. Kim’s I mean.”

Buffy shook her head. “I really think it should just be the two of us,” she said, half apologizing.

“Oh, I understand,” Joyce assured her as cheerfully as she could manage. And she did, but she wasn’t too happy about what she understood. The task that had been at the center of her existence for the past seventeen years was complete. Only time would tell how it had turned out, but it was done. The two (soon to be three) of them were the family now: Buffy, Giles and the baby. Joyce was just another relative. She was a divorced, all-but-forty-year-old woman with a struggling small business, an empty three bedroom house and not much else worth mentioning in her life. Maybe she should get a cat.

Then again... assuming Rupert had half a clue what he was talking about when it came to Chinese women (and Joyce got the distinct impression that he did) there was a good chance Buffy would be back in a year or two, baby, boxes and all.

****

**From the Private Journal of Peter Travers, Watcher**

_**27, May 1925** _

_**Despite my best laid plans, I had relations with Helena again last night, and a sort of a quiet row as well, which in an odd way seems to have made things a little better between us, not that they could easily have been made much worse. She cornered me in the archives yesterday afternoon and said, by way of greeting, ‘they flee from me who sometime did me seek,’ with that mean, smug little smile, obviously enjoying the fact that I really am a bit frightened of her. I know the poem, of course, and I had no intention of getting into a discussion then and there of who exactly is getting what they deserve from whom in this business. I was so thoroughly sick of her and of myself and the whole situation.** _

_**I reminded her that I had little Emma with me (she was walking up and down at that moment pretending to read aloud from the spines of the record volumes, giving them the titles of her nursery books) and that she relates everything she sees and hears. ‘Does she repeat four letter words?’ Helena asked me, coldly amused, as she has tended to be of late. When I didn’t make her any response to that, she told me to finish my work, take my child home and come to her flat, whatever excuses I had to make to Myrna, which I did.** _

_**I arrived in a pretty foul temper, I have to admit. I told Helena straight out that the grudge she bears is against me and to leave my family out of it. I told her that if she so much as looks unkindly at Myrna or the girls again there will be consequences and that if she endangers their happiness to any serious extent the Council will hear in great detail about not only my transgressions but her whole sordid and bizarre course of conduct thereafter and I asked her what she thought were the chances of either of us or any of our children being seated after that.** _

_**Helena was quiet for a long while. She sat down on the bed and held her face in her hands. I resisted the urge to apologize again or try to comfort her. I knew how much good it would do, and it would have undermined my showing of resolve on the issue of protecting Myrna and the children from getting tangled in this web with us. ‘I’ve been behaving like a monster,’ she said at last, apparently having finally taken a step back and looked at her own actions. I told her I honestly agreed though I also knew I had no right to say so given what I’d done. ‘No,’ she said coldly, ‘you haven’t.’ Then she told me to do what I was there to do and get out.** _

_**I felt terrible, detestable, defeated, but I took my clothes off and joined her on the bed. For once, she actually took her clothes off too, which struck me in an odd way as sort of a relenting on her part. In fact, the whole event seemed much less an act of hostility than previously. Instead the dominant emotion for both of us was grief, regret. I was barely managing to do what a man should be able to do, then she started crying halfway through. I asked her if I should stop but she told me just to hurry up and finish. I told her I couldn’t, which was true, I suddenly found my body quite incapable of the task.** _

_**I sat up and covered myself with a sheet and buried my head in my hands and shed a few tears myself. I begged her yet again to forgive me. She wept torrentially and said she wanted to but she didn’t know how to trust me or anyone anymore. She sat up on the bed next to me, naked, and began sobbing harder than ever. She told me that she feels alone and ashamed and angry and afraid and that she has no one to turn to. I hadn’t the slightest idea what to say, except ‘I’m sorry,’ which only made her sob harder still. I tried to put my arm around her and she stood up and asked me to leave.** _

_**What could I say? I stood up and started fumbling with my clothes. ‘How could you, Peter?’ Helena asked into the oppressive silence. It was an accusation, and yet she sounded less angry than heartbroken. ‘I honestly don’t know,’ I told her. ‘I haven’t any excuse.’ And I hadn’t. ‘I’m so tired,’ she said as if it were a direct response. ‘I don’t want revenge anymore. All I want is to have a child.’ ‘I don’t know why you would want** _ _ **my** _ _**child,’ I told her quite sincerely. She laughed then, a small sad laugh. ‘How many men to you expect me to let have a go at me?’ she asked. ‘I already went to the one I thought I could trust.’ What could I say? I promised to continue in the endeavored as long as she needed and wanted me to, no more ‘fleeing’ and forcing her to resort to threats. We agreed to call it a night and start fresh in a month or so.** _

_**In a way I feel like the air has been cleared a little between us, yet at the same time I feel more confused and sad than ever. God it is terrible to be a villain! To have sorrows and no right to complain of them, anger with no proper object! I miss Helena, my dear old friend, terribly, and the fact that she was more herself last night than at any time in the past three months only makes me miss her more.** _

****

“I tried to reach you at home,” Giles said quietly, by way of apology for his intrusion. “Your ex-husband said that I’d find you here.”

“It’s silly I guess,” Wendy said bleakly, wiping her eyes. “I’ve been here all night. I just... don’t want to leave him alone.” She was sitting in a wooden folding chair near the head of her son’s closed casket.

“Is there no one to sit with you?” Giles asked, fighting against the impulse to become indignant at the insensitivity of her so called loved ones. He had no business becoming self-righteous under the circumstances.

“It’s alright,” Wendy assured him unconvincingly. “Owen really only had his father and I, and if we stay in the same place too long, we just tend to fight. That’s the last thing we need today. But what did you need?” She asked worriedly. “I mean, you’re... ready, right?” He could see in her eyes that she suspected he’d come to back out. Maybe because she could see in his eyes that he was thinking about doing exactly that.

“I’m... prepared to speak if you still want me to,” he assured her, “but I feel that there is something about me you need to know. I... lied to you by omission the other day. I accepted your kind words about Owen’s admiration of me without telling you all of the reasons why I am no one to be greatly admired.”

“I don’t understand,” Wendy said.

Giles took off his glasses and rubbed his temples avoiding eye contact. “I erm... lost my job yesterday,” he explained. “I was forced to resign, actually. Because of a... relationship with a student.” He forced himself to look Wendy in the eye. She looked displeased but she seemed to lack the emotional energy to be socked or horrified.

“If you’re going to tell me that you... did something to my son—” she started, sounding more tired than angry.

“What?” Giles interjected, “No! Of course not! I _married_ a student,” he clarified, “a female student. It’s just... it isn’t done nowadays, and there’s quite a scandal about it. I’d hate for there to be any... disruption or undue placement of attention today, and I’d hate to think I misled you about the sort of person who’d be eulogizing your son.”

Wendy shrugged and sighed. “He’d have probably admired you even more,” she said grimly, “Owen always admired recklessness in other people. Especially if it could be characterized as romantic.” She shook her head, “He always liked the _idea_ of going to extremes, but until this happened...” Wendy let her voice trail off, shaking her head again.

To his horror, Giles realized he had not been dismissed. He was going to have to tell her the whole truth. Before he had quite worked up the nerve, she added, “I swear, I used to think the worst thing that could happen would be for him to get a second date with Buffy Summers. Now I wish they were out somewhere smashing mailboxes right now.”

“I think Buffy’s reputation for engaging in wonton destruction is somewhat exaggerated,” Giles said.

“I don’t know about that,” Wendy started to say, “You know _this_ is where they came on their first—” Suddenly she stopped short, memory sparking realization. He looked into her accusing eyes in silent miserable apology. “‘Overdue book fees’,” she scoffed. “I thought that sounded like nonsense when I read it in Owen’s journal.”

“I wasn’t... seeing her then,” Giles said quietly, his face in his hands, “not that it matters, I suppose.”

“She’s a year younger than Owen,” Wendy pointed out, only slightly to the disapproving side of indifferent, evidently unable to sustain any strong emotional response. She was taking something, Giles realized, probably quite a lot of it, to block the pain. “He never knew,” Wendy said, “never even suspected. He wrote in his journal the night before...” She let the sentence die an untimely death, blinking back a few tears despite her medically induced placidity.

“If he had known, I don’t know that he would want me here,” Giles pointed out.

Wendy laughed, “He’d have enjoyed not wanting you here,” she said. “He loved her like a sonneteer, a mile wide and an inch deep. All he needed was a rival to make the drama complete.”

“It sounds as though you’re a reader of sonnets,” Giles said, relieved for any change of topic.

“I used to be,” she said. “Life gets in the way I guess. Or it should. I wish I’d tried harder to get Owen interested in real life instead of sitting in his room reading and writing about death all the time.”

“Books can be a healthy part of real life,” Giles pointed out.

“Books are people that can’t reject you,” Wendy said. “He got that from me, I’m afraid. Or maybe we both got it from his father. I think half the reason he was so hung up on the idea of being in love with Buffy was because it gave him an excuse not to put himself out there and get rejected by anyone else.”

“You may not believe this,” Giles said earnestly, “But Owen _was_ a fine boy and would have made a fine man. You didn’t only imagine so because he was your son. Anyone who took the time to know him was impressed with his sensitivity and intelligence and gentleness of spirit. This... madness that occurred, this momentary distemper, that wasn’t who he was.”

“Thank you for saying so,” Wendy said.

“It’s nothing but the truth,” Giles told her quite seriously.

Wendy was quiet for a moment. “You seem like such a _nice_ person,” she said shaking her head.

Giles smiled, “As opposed to ‘The Wickedest Man’ in Sunnydale, California?” he asked, mildly sardonically.

Wendy smiled sadly. “Something like that,” she said. “Anyways I have trouble picturing you with Buffy Summers.”

“Well, I stand by what I’ve said about her reputation,” he insisted, “though I don’t suppose I’m really helping her to disprove it.”

Wendy’s brow furrowed, “It’s an improvement over what they were printing in the papers two or three weeks ago,” she pointed out.

“Yes, well, most of that was true, I’m afraid,” he admitted with a dry laugh. “Her ‘boyfriend’ murdered my ‘girlfriend’, among other people, so naturally our logical response was to... erm _marry_ each other.”

“Now _that_ my son would have appreciated,” Wendy told him, shaking her head again. “I think you probably had better go,” she added, sighing, “I’m not sure my ex-husband would appreciate the irony.”

“Perhaps that’s best,” he agreed, standing to go.

“Thank you,” Wendy said, quite earnestly.

Giles laughed, “Whatever for?”

“For seeing Owen the way I see him,” she said. “It’s nice to know I really didn’t ‘imagine’ him that way.”

“Well, I should honestly hate to go on living,” Giles said, “if I thought that none of us could ever be judged better than the worst thing we’d ever done.”

 


	10. Children and Other Living Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is what keeps happening. We left the idea of 'plans' a couple of exits back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II: The Lesser Light

Xander knocked quietly on the door of the room where Willow was (still) sitting at the foot of her mother’s bed staring blankly at the headboard. Ignoring her complete lack of a response, he edged into the room, carefully avoiding the boxes that were piled everywhere. “You’ve been in here for hours,” he said. “Come eat something.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said flatly.

“Come on Wil,” Xander complained, “this is getting to be a regular Sunday morning routine.”

“So stop pestering me and let me sit here,” Willow countered glumly.

“Well if you don’t come eat,” he teased, “I’m just going to have to give it to Amy, and it’s only going to make her fatter and more depressed and it’ll be all your fault.”

Willow gave him a sullen look, but she followed him down stairs. He hadn’t touched his plate either, she noticed. He’d waited for her. “How’s Oz doing?” he asked after they’d eaten for a while in tense, gloomy silence, “any word from his mom?”

“He’s having another surgery today,” Willow informed him, trying not to sound as worried as she felt. “But Connie says if that goes well they’ll move him from Intensive Care to Critical Care after that, so he might be in a regular room by Tuesday and then I can go see him. I couldn’t find out anything new about Cordelia,” she added, knowing perfectly well what he was not yet asking her, “I tried hacking the hospital's computer system, but they still list her discharge date as ‘open.’”

“God I hope nothing goes wrong tomorrow,” Xander worried. “If I don’t get to see her soon... I don’t know, I just have to see her, that’s all. I mean, they can’t keep us apart. I mean this is true love, right? Who's gonna say there’s something wrong with that?”

****

Three of the seven Watchers remained in the chamber after four had left.

“Something has to be done,” Phillip Robson said. “We have to put a stop to this madness.”

Adam Davidson agreed but said nothing.

“What _can_ we do?” asked Milton Crowne, seeming much too ready to admit defeat. “I was so sure of Virgil’s vote until Quentin played that recording.”

“It’s been tampered with,” Robson said firmly, “if not physically, then magically. I’ve known Rupert from a boy. He didn’t say those things.”

Again Davidson agreed but said nothing.

“Will you advocate for him before the Outer Council?” Crowne asked.

“I must,” Robson said grimly. “Will you support me?”

“To an extent,” Crowne said. “I will speak on the danger of putting the Slayer in such an untenable position. I won’t make excuses for Rupert. Will you veto, if it comes to that?”

“I don’t know,” Robson admitted. “I told Rupert I would not, but if the two of you would stand with me, I’d strongly consider it.”

“I won’t,” said Crowne flatly. “I’m sorry to see what’s going to happen to the Slayer, and the Council, but we can’t let these... insubordinates pit the Equals against each other.”

They were cowards, Davison realized with mild distain. The both of them. For something to be done, he was going to have to do it. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said apologetically. “The hour is getting late.”

****

“So Xander’s court went okay this morning?” Buffy asked. They were sitting on a bench in the little park across from the school waiting for Giles to pick Buffy up for her doctor’s appointment.

“Mostly,” Willow said. “They dismissed all the charges, but he still has a ‘No Contact’ Order with Cordelia for a year.”

“Wow,” said Buffy. “Harsh.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty freaked out about it,” Willow admitted. “But on the plus side, her Dad is going to let her come back to school here, you know, now that her ‘rapist’ is going somewhere else.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe they even call it that when you’re both underage.”

“Yeah,” Willow teased, “It’d be different if he was like forty-seven or something.”

“Ha ha,” Buffy said. She refrained for pointing out that Willow had violated the exact same statute with Amy. Knowing her, she’d actually find a way to feel guilty about it. “Still no idea what happened to Gwendolyn Post?” she asked instead.

“None,” Willow confirmed, “although, I did find out INS is looking for her.”

“That makes sense,” Buffy said, “According to Giles the Council has a major in with them. She must have realized they were onto her and split.”

“Yeah,” Willow agreed. She felt guilty about not sharing more about her online investigation of Mrs. Post, but Giles had told her not to. He had said he didn’t want to worry Buffy, but Willow also got the feeling he didn’t think Buffy could keep sufficiently quiet about it. He didn’t want there to be any hint in the ears of the Council that he was accusing his father or this Travers guy of anything until he could be certain which one it was and that it was true. “Any word from the Council?” Willow asked.

“Sort of,” Buffy acknowledged glumly. “Giles called Robson yesterday. He said they met, but he wouldn’t say what happened except that we can ‘expect a messenger’ any time. Giles thinks that doesn’t mean anything good, but he won’t say so, like suddenly I’m too delicate or something.”

“It sounds pretty ominous,” Willow admitted.

“Yeah, it does,” Buffy agreed. “I’m kind of trying to forget about it though, ‘cause today’s supposed to be a happy day, you know little pitter-pattery heartbeats and all that, and I’m already worried enough in case it’s not.”

The two girls sat in silence for a while, each brooding on her own cares. At last, Giles pulled his red convertible up to the curb a few feet away. Instantly Buffy was lit from within, her cares seemingly forgotten. She bounded up and over to the vehicle with a few hurried words of parting and got in. As she watched them drive away, Willow was both happy for her and a little jealous. She wished there were anyone or anything that could make her forget her own worries so quickly and completely, but there wasn’t, not even Oz.

“How was school?” Giles asked Buffy.

“A reverent joy,” she said with cheerful sarcasm. “How was unemployment?”

“Thrilling,” Giles answered dryly. “I spent the morning organizing the Watcher Diaries for my successor and the first part of the afternoon unpacking yet more of your things. I hardly felt useless at all.”

“Don’t worry,” said Buffy cheerfully, taking a hold of the hand with which he kept _almost_ shifting the parking brake and lacing her fingers through his, “I can still find a use for you.”

Giles smiled, lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Dear lady,” he said, “in that case I shall be ever at your service.”

They were still beaming at one another when they walked hand-in-hand into Dr. Kim’s office. They sobered a little in the face of the sour, incredulous looks they were getting from the staff and the other waiting patients. “That’s the one I told you about,” one mother told another in a loud stage whisper, “from Nancy’s school.” Buffy and Giles did their best to ignore them.

“Good heavens this is... suspenseful,” Giles said after a while. Buffy tried to gauge whether he meant ‘exiting’ or ‘terrifying’. She doubted if he knew. She hardly knew what she felt herself. Every day in every way their strange new life together was becoming more and more real. Minutes later, in the exam room, when they heard the amplified sound of their baby’s heartbeat going “Wooosh-wooosh-woosh,” there was no denying that was just about as real as it could get.

Giles squeezed Buffy’s hand, blinking back tears. He’d never wanted to be a father. He’d never meant to be a father. But he was going to be a father, and he was determined to be worthy of the responsibility. Whatever the judgment of the Council, he was going to do whatever it took to protect his family. Robson had assured him, before the Council met, that they had the votes to prevent his being Stricken at least. But all he would say afterward was that ‘the proceedings are secret, as you well know.’ Giles found his sudden circumspection worrying. He felt certain that if the news were good Robson would have found a way to hint at the fact.

Giles tried to suppress his worries, to stay in this moment here with Buffy and the new little life that was growing within her. “Which of us do you think he looks like?” Buffy joked. The images on the ultrasound monitor did not look like the ones pro-lifers put on billboards. They looked, upon very, very close examination, like something that might have been a shrimp with a giant head, or maybe just a random collection of shadows.

“The twenty-week ultrasounds are the cute ones,” Dr. Kim assured Buffy, reading her doubtful face. “That’s when we determine the sex and everything. These are really just for measurements. To get your due date as accurate as possible.”

“I got pregnant on February 20th,” Buffy told him matter-of-factly, “or almost the 21st I guess. It was kind of late at night.”

“That’s... erm not how they count, Dear,” Giles told her, making a fairly unpleasant face.

“You’re so cute when you’re embarrassed,” she teased. “You’re so British.” Giles gave Buffy a mild look, as if to say he was both amused and very slightly offended by the idea that a basic sense of decorum should be considered charmingly quaint.

“And... what my measurements tell me...” said Dr. Kim, ignoring the both of them, “is... 5weeks 1 day... which...” he looked at his chart “with an LMP of February 7, I’m going to go with 5weeks 2 days, because that measurement is pretty close...”

“However you count, it’s not five weeks,” Buffy pointed out. “I remember five weeks ago. I was miserable, lonely and depressed five weeks ago.”

“This would be the erm... American system of accounting, yes?” Giles clarified. Apparently he’d been doing some research since being caught short on Gynecological knowledge.

“Yes,” Dr. Kim acknowledged, explaining for the benefit of a still clearly puzzled Buffy. “We count 40 weeks from your last period, which is a date that’s easy to obtain objectively, whereas the British system attempts to calculate 38 weeks from ovulation, which is frequently only a presumptive date.”

“So, when someone is five weeks pregnant, that means they’ve been pregnant for three weeks?” Buffy asked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s still how we do it,” Dr. Kim assured her.

“It’s the pervasive American preference for simplicity over accuracy,” Giles explained just a little pompously.

“Yes, well... anyway,” said Dr. Kim, “That gives us an EDD (estimated date of delivery) of... November 14.”

“November 14th,” Buffy repeated feeling a little reassured to receive some solid news, however it was arrived at.

“Give or take two weeks,” Dr. Kim added.

Or not. “So basically, any time in November,” Buffy pointed out, slightly nettled. “We kind of already knew that.”

Dr. Kim shrugged. “I’m an OBGYN,” he said, “not the Psychic Friends Hotline.” He was clearly getting annoyed with them. The whole world seemed to be annoyed with them, or worse. Oh well. They would just have to get over it or not, Buffy decided. She was in love with and happily married to a wonderful man and everything was so far so good for having a healthy baby Giles. In her book that was a heck of a lot better than what her life had been like five weeks and two days ago and she was determined to be happy about it.

Buffy and Giles talked excitedly about the baby all the way home. Whether they wanted a boy or a girl. (Giles claimed he didn’t care, but Buffy wanted a girl “for the shopping opportunities”) What kind of a name they were looking for. (“Something dignified,” Giles suggested. “Like Buffy or Rupert,” Buffy joked.) By the time they got back to their apartment, they were over the moon with anticipatory joy.

There was a man standing at their front door: young but not very, with a wavy brown hair just over his collar and a tiny, tastefully ‘cool’ diamond stud earring in one ear. He was well but not formally dressed in one of those jacket-over-a-turtleneck affairs. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and his feet planted comfortably apart, with the air of someone who had been waiting patiently for a length of time that would have made a lesser man impatient. Their light hearts were suddenly heavy with dread. A messenger.

After studying the face for a moment, Giles thought he recognized him. He couldn’t be sure. It had been a very long time. He could have been some distant relative of the lad Giles was remembering. But he wasn’t.“How do you do,” he said politely, even warmly, holding out his hand first to Giles and then to Buffy, “I’m Peter, Peter Travers, your new Watcher.” It was Quentin’s son.

“Won’t you come in?” Giles said, opening the door. Buffy tried to smile and be polite, but despite his warmth, the young man made her nervous. He was here to replace Giles and to bring news of their punishment.

Sure enough, as soon as the door was closed, he opened his stylish leather satchel, looking suddenly grave. He took out two elaborately sealed envelopes, handing one each to Buffy and Giles. Buffy read hers through twice. It recited some facts that were basically true but with a dramatic negative slant and said that she was ‘Summoned by the Watcher’s Council of Britain to appear before a Disciplinary Committee to be held on 20, April, 1998.’ Other than the date, there was no news there. But when she looked up into Giles’ face, he looked so pale and horrified that she knew there must be more to his.

Silently they exchanged documents. Giles was Summoned to the Quarterly Council Meeting to be held 20 to 24, April, 1998, ‘To Appear and Show Cause why he should not be Expelled from the Outer Council in accordance with the unanimous recommendation of the Inner Council and Stricken from the Registry of Watchers in accordance with the majority recommendation of the Inner Council.’ Buffy stood a moment, dumb struck, absorbing what that meant before finally looking up into Travers’ only mildly worried eyes. “Get the Hell out of my house!” she demanded through clenched teeth, tears running down her face. Travers seemed stunned, and suddenly very worried indeed.

“Look,” said Giles coldly, taking the Summons from Buffy and handing it to him.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said after he’d read the words, seeming both truly regretful and very, very shocked.

“I fear we shall all be a good deal sorrier before all is said and done if your father continues to have his way,” Giles pointed out bitterly.

“Get _out_ of my _house_!” Buffy repeated, infuriated by the ‘civilized’ way the two Watchers were discussing the Council’s bid to destroy her family. Horrified, Peter hurriedly took his leave.

Giles rushed to put his arms around Buffy. “They can’t do this!” she sobbed.

“No,” Giles assured her with a good deal more confidence than he actually felt. He tucked her head under his chin and stroked her hair. “We’re not going to let this happen.”

“They can’t take you away from me!” she insisted fiercely, “I’ll quit their damned Council first.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Giles repeated, knowing they only partly meant the same thing. This was no time to have that conversation. Buffy was too angry. She needed to absorb one harsh reality at a time. There would be time enough to discuss the hard choice that would have to be made if the Council chose to go through with this insanity.

“Do you feel like doing some training before dinner,” Giles said finally, after they’d held each other in silence a long while, “or do you want to go ahead and get started on your homework?”

“I want to ‘go ahead and get started’ on what we’re going to do to stop this!” Buffy countered incredulously, though hitting something repeatedly also sounded pretty good. Something like Not-Saint Peter Travers, for example.

“There’s nothing much we can do until April,” Giles advised her. “There are one hundred twelve member of the Outer Council at present, not counting me, because I assume I will have been removed by then. We need fifty-six votes, to leave them one short of the majority needed to take action. In a matter this serious, almost all of them will vote as their Seatholders direct. I’m assuming we have the Wyndham-Pryce, votes. That’s thirty-four. Probably also the Ezarians, but that’s only four and one of them hasn’t been to a Quarterly Meeting since—well, he probably will show up for this actually—but to pick up another eighteen votes, we have to convince Virgil Gaudencio or Milton Crowne, either of whom would consider an approach prior to the start of the Council meeting to be illegitimate. It would only harden their position against us. Neither Travers nor Dunstan has the votes, even if they didn’t hate us quite so much. No, the only thing we can do is to wait and... to be seen to continue to do our duty.”

“So you’re saying just go on like nothing’s wrong?!” Buffy demanded. “Just wait for them to do whatever they’re going to do to us and hope it works out?!”

“No,” Giles corrected her thinly, “I’m saying we have to wait until we get to London to do any active campaigning for votes and that the best thing we can do to help ourselves in the meantime is to show them that we can still be both loyal and effective in the fight against evil, even as husband and wife.”

Buffy sighed. It didn’t seem like the best plan in the world, but she guessed he would know better than she would. “This means I have to work with my ‘new Watcher’ doesn’t it?” she pouted.

“I’m afraid so,” said Giles apologetically.

“Do I have to like him?” Buffy grumbled.

“No,” said Giles, “but you have to act as though you respect him. Which means you actually have to do what he says and not necessarily whatever you think is best.”

“I swear to God,” said Buffy a little sullenly, “you and I must have radically different memories of the last year. I’ve never done anything _but_ follow orders... most the time.”

Giles gave her a look and shook his head. “This is extremely serious, Buffy,” he said.

“I noticed that, actually,” she pointed out defensively. “Am I somehow giving you the impression that I didn’t?”

“Well... no...”Giles admitted. He was quiet for a moment, then his face brightened a little. “You know,” he said, “Quentin may have unwittingly handed us an opportunity. If you can sufficiently impress young Mr. Travers, his recommendation may pull some of his father’s votes, which we may need to backstop my father’s influence on some of the other houses.”

“Impress him how?” Buffy asked skeptically.

“By being the marvelous Slayer that you are,” said Giles dryly.

“And by kissing his ass?” she asked, with faux cheerful enthusiasm.

“Erm... metaphorically speaking,” Giles said, “absolutely.”

“You know what?” she said, “I really do feel like training.”

****

“Mom?” Oz said, sitting up in bed, “what day is it?”

“It’s Monday night,” Connie said tiredly.

“As in four days after the full moon?”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“So, I’ve been here, what almost three days?”

Connie nodded.

“Then where’s Dad?” Oz asked gravely. When his mother didn’t answer right away he added, “If he’s dead. If... I killed him, you have to tell me.”

“Honey, no,” Connie assured him, squeezing his hand, tears in her eyes.

“Then where is he?” Oz asked matter-of-factly.

Connie looked him in the eyes. He needed to know. He’d never quit suspecting the worst until she told him. “He left us,” she said simply.

“Oh,” said Oz.

“He’s taking the house. It was his father’s. We have to be out by the end of the month. Ken and Maureen suggested we come stay with them,” Connie went on. Oz could tell she still had something to say. Something she was still nervous about, even after what she’d just told him. He waited. “They’ve got that padded basement, you know, so once your healthy and once we make sure you can all get along with each other, you wouldn’t even have to be chained up.”

‘All.’ A word typically used to describe a complete set of three or more persons or things. Uncle Ken’s hand. “Do it,” he said. It’d mean driving a little further to see Willow, but he was ready to live anywhere but Sunnydale, even if it was still in Hellmouth County. More importantly, the family, such as it was, needed to stick together.

****

“Buffy,” Giles was saying urgently, shaking her awake, “Buffy are you alright?”

“Yeah,” she assured him groggily, although she didn’t feel ‘alright’ exactly. In fact, all wrong would have been closer.

“What did you dream?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, “at least, nothing I remember. Why?”

“You were crying,” he explained worriedly, “and... trying to say something, but it was as if there were a hand round your throat.”

Buffy realized that her face was indeed wet with tears. “What was I saying?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Giles repeated worriedly, “it was as if you were... choking on the words. Something about God... ‘the will of God,’ ‘the love of God,’ something like that.”

“That doesn’t sound much like me,” Buffy pointed out.

“No,” Giles agreed, “that’s why I thought it might be something prophetic. I tried to listen for a while, but you were so distressed that I thought it best to wake you.”

“Good call,” Buffy assured him, becoming fully aware of how hard her heart had been pounding only by the sensation of its slowing to near normal. She started to kiss her husband and reassure him that everything was actually alright after all, but at the last second she had to run to the bathroom and throw up instead.

By the time she’d brushed her teeth and washed her face, Giles was up and getting dressed. “I may as well make us some breakfast,” he offered. “It’s nearly seven anyhow. How was your patrol last night,” he asked when they’d sat down to their ham and eggs.

“Same old, same old,” Buffy assured him. “I killed another little scaly red demon on the play ground. I think it must be their mating season or something. I got a skin sample this time if you wanted to see it.”

“I think you’d probably be better off showing it to Peter,” he advised. “You might tell him about your dream too. Let him start out by feeling deeply included and vitally important.”

“How am I even supposed to find him?” Buffy worried. “It’s not like I got his address and phone number before I threw him out of the house.”

“He’ll find you,” Giles assured her. “I had him in a couple of seminars back when he was in training. He’s always been a conscientious lad. Good follow through. Doesn’t scare easily. Fine qualities in a Watcher. In fact, I always quite liked him. In spite of his family associations. Really, I’m feeling better and better about his selection. Quentin of course wants someone here that he can trust, but actually, that is a quality we may well be able to use to our advantage at the right moment. And we certainly could have done a lot worse. Rumor has it, Julian’s son has finally managed to satisfactorily complete his training and he’s so desperate to get into the field he’d even take this assignment.”

“So I’m not the Slayer every Watcher wants anymore,” Buffy surmised.

“No,” Giles admitted, “thanks to me mostly, I suppose. Of course, in a sense, Primary Filed Watcher is always a plum assignment. Less than a fourth of all Watchers are ever assigned an active Slayer. So there’s always _some_ competition...”

“But being the third Watcher to a pregnant Slayer whose about to be disciplined is not the stuff every little Watcher’s dreams are made of,” Buffy concluded.

“Precisely,” Giles admitted. “Do you want me to drive you to school?” he asked.

“No,” Buffy said, “I want you to teach me to drive.”

Giles smiled. “Of course,” he said. “Why do you think I bought that damned automatic in the first place? We’ll go to the DMV this afternoon.”

“Mmmmmm, that sounds romantic,” Buffy said leaning up to kiss him, sounding only very slightly facetious.

Giles kissed her back before asking, “How so?”

“Oh you know...long lines...government bureaucrats, it’ll be just like our wedding day. It’s our anniversary after all.”

He smiled. “One week,” he agreed, pulling her into his arms and kissing her again, “Long enough to make a world. How could I forget?”

Very quickly they found themselves locked in a passionate embrace that could not be any further perused in a kitchen chair. Giles found himself wondering if the table would hold their weight. He laughed delightedly at his own foolishness and suggested they go upstairs. Buffy glanced up at the clock and made a noise between a whine and a whimper. "Hold that thought," she said. "First period starts in like twelve minutes. I don’t want to be late for Mr. Miller anymore if we’re going to keep asking him to stick his neck out for us."

“That’s probably best,” Giles agreed disappointedly. Then he made a face. “I suppose you’d better talk to Peter about that as well. Though I’m not really sure what he’ll think about it. I’m—that is to say, I _was_ —forever being criticized for... enlisting too many civilians as it were. But honestly, if the Council isn’t going a assign proper field support.... Well you’ll have to talk with him about it, that’s all. If he gives you too much trouble, just blame me.”

Buffy grinned. “Oh, that was my plan all along,” she teased.

Sure enough, five minutes later, when Giles pulled the convertible to a stop across the street from the school, there was Peter, leaning against a tree with an air of nonchalance and infinite patience. Giles nodded to him politely, kissed Buffy and left.

“Hey,” Buffy said, more or less apologetically, that is, less apologetically than she thought she should have but more apologetically than she felt.

“Hi,” said Peter in an even, friendly sort of way, making his unhurried way towards her, as if he had no sense of doubt or urgency about gaining her cooperation. Buffy knew better.

“I don’t have long,” she told him, “I’ve got to get to class. But I’m on board. Can we just... meet some time tonight and start over?”

“Well,” said Peter, if you don’t think it would be too rude, I hoped I might invite myself to dinner.”

“Mi Casa es Su Casa,” Buffy said with a shrug. “I mean, you’re the boss now, right? I get that.”

Peter gave her a doubtful look. “Thanks?” he said, “I suppose. I need to get the Watcher Diaries from Mr. Giles, obviously, and truth-be-told, I was hoping I might... recruit him to assist me and pick his brain about anyone else in this town who can reasonably be trusted to lend a hand. Unfortunately, the Council has been reluctant to give me the field support I feel I need for such an... active assignment. You don’t think he’ll... mind do you?”

Buffy couldn’t keep from laughing. “I think he’ll be your new best friend, actually. He’s allergic to spare time and right now he has a lot of it. He likes you anyway, he called you a...” she cleared her throat and attempted an imitation, “‘conscientious lad with good follow through.’”

Peter laughed. “That’s him exactly! Good grief, he makes me sound as though I were twelve years old.”

“I kinda got the impression you might have been when he knew you,” Buffy admitted.

Peter laughed again, “I was about your age when I first studied with him actually.”

“God,” Buffy sighed, shaking her head. “People are just never going to get over that part of it, are they?”

Peter shrugged. “I’ll see you about seven?” he said, just as the first bell rang.

“Make it five,” Buffy called over her shoulder as she turned to cross the street. “There’s a grave about to pop over at Restfield. I want to get there by sunset. Come with. You can see me in action and let me know what you want me to work on.”

If she’d have looked back, Buffy would have seen that Peter was smiling and shaking his head a little in a way that said he found her different, but impressive. He had trouble picturing her as the mate of Rupert Giles (either the one he knew or the one his father continued to warn him about) but he definitely thought he could work with her. If only he could find a way to stop his father from driving her to defy the Council.

****

The painfully bright L.A. sun shown through the enormous window that made up an entire wall of the seventh story big-but-not-quite-corner office.  Morning gave way to afternoon.  The afternoon wore on.   Hank Summers sat at his desk doing absolutely nothing, staring into space. He couldn’t set his mind to anything. He marked the seconds until it would be close enough to the end of the day to justify leaving. Then at least he could stare into space privately without that gold digger Mitzie Lovell coming in every fifteen minutes to lay an ‘understanding’ hand on his shoulder and ask if he needed anything. If she had any real understanding of what his life was like, she wouldn’t be campaigning so hard to be his next ex.

“How old are you?” he asked her when she came in yet again at a quarter to four to tell him that “a bunch of us,” were going to “this bar around the corner” at five.

The tall brunette cocked her head quizzically, in a way that reminded him unsettlingly of Buffy. “I’ll be twenty-two in August,” she said, “Why?”

“No reason,” Hank said, still staring ahead at nothing.

“So are you coming?” she asked after a longish silence.

“Do you see much of your parents, Mitzie?” Hank asked.

“My parents live in Memphis,” Mitzie told him, starting to get annoyed.

“But to do you call them?” He asked, “Do you keep in touch?”

“Did something happen to your parents?” Mitzie asked, trying to sound more sympathetic than she actually felt. “Was that the family emergency last week?”

Hank shook his head. “My parents have been dead for three years,” he said. “Car crash. And when I got the call, I bet it was the first time I’d thought about them in a month. My daughter got married a week ago. To a guy about my age, maybe a little older. Pretty shady past, depending on who you ask.”

Mitzie was shocked. “I thought your kids were in high school,” she said.

“Kid,” Hank corrected, “and she is, at least the last time I checked. That’s why they call it an emergency.”

“That’s terrible,” Mitzie said with what sounded like genuine indignation.

Hank shrugged. “Evidently they don’t think so. She told me in just about that many words to mind my own damned business,” he said. “I think I’m going to call it a day,” he added tiredly.

“Well...” said Mitzie awkwardly after a moderate silence, “We’ll be at _The Matador_ if you change your mind.”

“Go home,” he said, “call your parents, my unsolicited advice for the day.”

“Or maybe,” Mitzie said, turning to leave, “you should go home and call your daughter.”

****

“And you haven’t seen any sign of this ‘Spike’ since that night?” Peter asked. He was holding the plastic baggy with the demon scales in it up to the light with his left hand (working on two sets of Hellmouth related problems at the same time) while eating with his right.

“No,” Buffy confirmed trying not to be grossed out by the fact that there were demon parts at the table. She had to keep eating. There were only a few minutes until sunset and she could not go out on an empty stomach.

“But, given his past history,” Giles interjected, “I think it would be safe to assume that he is, or shortly will be, gathering forces for another attack on Buffy, or at least a power grab of some kind.”

“I think it would be unsafe not to make that assumption,” Peter agreed. “We ought to be looking for him rather than waiting for him to surface.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed, “but where do we look? This guy likes to sleep in crypts and tunnels and abandoned industrial buildings, I mean, it’s not like there’s going to be a lease in his name or something.”

“Well why not have Ms. Rosenberg do a location spell?” Peter suggested. “He’s bound to have left some... artifact or other at the Hellmouth.”

“Willow isn’t doing magic anymore,” Buffy told him.

“Good heavens, why not?” he asked, adding on half a moment’s reflection, “Because she was... assaulted, in the line of duty?”

“It isn’t _only_ that,” Giles explained. “Her use of magic was becoming... abusive, self-destructive, as in the case of her mother and that of Ms. Madison and ... certain other incidents.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. “But from what your reports describe,” he said, “surely it must be entirely clear to you that she is a Natural Witch, perhaps a very powerful one. She can’t simply stop being what she is. If she’s having trouble controlling her power, or using it appropriately, then we ought to try to put her in touch with a good coven for proper training and guidance.”

Giles was quiet for a long moment playing over events in his mind. Of course! Peter was right. No ordinary person should have been able to do a locator spell powerfully enough to actually be _transported_ to the target location, no matter what she’d used as a homing object. And for Heaven’s sake, the girl had killed half a dozen vampires with a _glamour_ , which she had learned to duplicate by intuition rather than by studying any supplemental spell. He must have been too distracted by the horrible events of that night (and the dramatic event of his own life) to have realized it. “That’s... certainly a possibility worthy of consideration,” he conceded aloud.

“Somehow,” said Buffy, shaking her head, “I don’t think Willow will see it that way. And even if she does, this is long-termy stuff, with the training and everything. There’s no way she’s going to wake up tomorrow ready to try that same locator spell on _Spike_ that she used on Kendra and take a chance on landing right in his arms without any of us even having a clue where to look for her.”

“Well, regardless,” Peter said, looking at his watch, “it’s time to go and meet the late Mr. Goscheck. The perversity of fate being as it is, he may be early. Will you join us, Mr. Giles? Assuming we do have to wait, I can think of a million more things I’d love to pick your brain about.”

“I think that went rather well,” Giles mused a few hours later as he lay in bed holding Buffy in his arms.

“We have amazing sex,” Buffy agreed, snuggling sleepily against his chest.

“No—well, yes, we do—but I actually meant the Slaying,” Giles clarified, “or more particularly working with Peter. Against all odds, I think the Council has actually sent us someone who can be a help to us.”

“Maybe,” Buffy said pensively, sitting up a little. “But it seems weird to me that he’s so eager to work with you. I mean never mind the fact that you and his father are like serious actual enemies, you’re also supposed to be this terrible guy that I have to be kept away from for my own good, right, so why is he getting all co-Watchery?”

“Well obviously,” Giles opined, “he disagrees with the Inner Council’s recommendation. Which is all to the good for us.”

“I guess,” Buffy said, but to her it didn’t seem that obvious. She was quiet for a moment, snuggling close to Giles again, trying not to let it bother her, but she couldn’t help it. “But here’s the thing,” she said, suddenly sitting back up again, “What if, he doesn’t really? What if he’s just... acting like he does so that I’ll like him better? Maybe he thinks I’ll start trusting him and thinking he’s different from the rest of the Council, then when they do vote to send you away or something, he thinks he can move in and be like, ‘Oh I’m so sorry that happened, but that’s them and not me and we can still work together,’ and really it’s all part of their evil, evil plan!”

“It’s possible,” Giles admitted reluctantly, because it would have been implausible to deny the possibility. In fact, he assumed that was a big part of what was happening. Peter’s interest in his advice seemed genuine enough, and his regret that things had gotten to this state of affairs was no doubt genuine also, but he wouldn’t have been much of a Watcher to have come into a situation like this without giving some thought to how he was going to protect his Slayer, particularly from herself, if the Council voted as they seemed poised to vote come April.

“So what do we do?” Buffy asked.

“Keep working with him and try to turn the situation to our advantage,” Giles advised. “The closer he gets to you, the closer you get to him. Quentin is still the leader of his line, but Peter is the undisputed heir. If he speaks for us in Council, that ought to be worth a half a dozen votes at least, and I can’t think of anything that would be more helpful in convincing one or two of the Equals to change their positions. Not that he’s ever shown any signs of defiance against his father in the past, but he’s not a fool. He knows what kind of a man Quentin really is, and I believe he understands... what’s at stake.”

“I don’t think he does know ‘what’s at stake’ though,” Buffy objected fiercely. “If they think they are going to keep us apart... It’s going to be over my dead body! Maybe he needs to know that. Maybe a lot of other people on the Council need to know it too.”

Of course, Giles knew all too well that most of the Council did know or suspect as much, that they were already taking the possibility into account. “Perhaps at some point,” he said noncommittally, wrapping Buffy a little more tightly in his embrace and stroking her hair. “For now, I think we should go on building good will by being as cooperative as possible.” He hoped he was wrong, but he didn’t think even the certain knowledge that they would be acting ‘over the Slayer’s dead body’ would cause many in the Outer Council to break ranks with their leaders.

He needed a stratagem he hadn’t yet thought of. He needed leverage. He needed more than ever a stick with which to beat Quentin Travers, and it was looking less and less like Gwendolyn was going to be it. Willow had tried unsuccessfully to track her financial transactions, and her communications with Quentin had evidently gone through Council channels in a way that was quite deniable. Since her disappearance, there had been no sign of her in cyberspace or anywhere else. He was going to have to think of something else. And as long as the next month was likely to be, he had no idea if it would be enough time.

****

Xander hadn’t known there was anything more boring a person could do than going to school. But sitting and waiting for your number to be called at the employment office definitely was more boring. So was filling out the applications for the half dozen jobs they had that you might be halfway qualified for if they didn’t look too close. And boy did all of the people you had to wait with completely lack a sense of humor!

Oh well. At least he could honestly say he’d never been convicted of a felony. At least he didn’t have two or three kids in tow, still crying about the shots they’d just gotten at the health department. He was going to have to do better than any of the crappy jobs he’d applied for today before he did. Eight dollars an hour was never going to support one let alone two descendants of Garrett Chase in the manner to which they would feel entitled, not even if he worked eighty hours a week.

“Hey,” he said to the ancient woman at the high, windowed counter where he turned in the applications, “Why aren’t there any restaurant jobs? Did the health inspector just go nuts and close ‘em all down?”

“They don’t come here,” she said flatly. “You have to go there. You have to look in the newspaper.”

Xander looked at the big clock on the wall. It was after three. More boring and longer. But there was no way around it. The whole point of leaving school was to get a head start on being a man who could support a wife. That didn’t square in any way shape or form with continuing to live off Sheila’s savings and Ira’s life insurance. He already owed Willow and Giles and Buffy more money than he could ever pay back in a lifetime, even if you counted fighting evil towards paying it back.

Xander went to get a newspaper. In it he found an ad. Help was wanted at the Quick Mart Thursday through Sunday. $8.00 an hour to open the place at six a.m. and work until three; $12.00 to come on at three and close it at midnight. There weren’t many 24 hour places in Sunnydale. They lost enough people closing at midnight.

****

“Racket Ball?” Buffy asked skeptically. This was why her new Watcher had wanted to meet her at the Sunnydale Health Club?

“You’re going to love it,” Peter assured her.

“But how is it going to make me a better Slayer?” Buffy wanted to know. “I mean, I already have all of this speed and strength and agility. Shouldn’t we be concentrating on like tactics and stuff?”

“Just you let me worry about that,” Peter told her firmly. “There’s a method to my madness, I assure you.”

“Aye aye,” Buffy said, giving him a quick two fingered solute. ‘Wax on, wax off,’ she thought tiredly. After nearly two years on the job, she felt she should be well past this sort of silliness. Oh well. She guessed ‘creative’ training ideas were just one of the ‘joys’ of breaking in a new Watcher. At least while they were playing they also discussed what Peter had found out about the scaly demons and what to do about them. Besides being effective time management, this gave Buffy something to do with the other ninety percent of her attention that was untapped by following a rapidly moving ball with her eyes and then whacking it with a racket. Nevertheless, at the end of a long work-out/battle planning (well extermination planning) session, she was glad to get home to her husband, who had a nice hot meal waiting for her... and a few new training ideas she might want to try out in between her homework and her patrol.

“I’m telling you,” Buffy whispered plaintively in Willow’s ear a week from that Friday in the study hall that was supposed to be English class, “it’s been like this for almost two weeks! It’s like having two Watchers, I mean exactly like. I swear to God, they’re going to work me to death. And it’s not like I’m killing any more vampires or demons than I ever did. We’re just _talking_ about it a lot more. Doing more training exercises, concentration drills, thought experiments, positive frickin’ visualization (that’s Peter, not Giles, obviously), but I mean there is not one single lame idea that they have not tried out on me between the two of them! Last night I had to like almost literally force myself on Giles just to get him to shut up. I swear, it’s like they think there’s some kind of Slayer final exams coming up or something. They're driving me nuts!”

“Yeah, well,” Willow said agitatedly, “I wish I could make Giles leave me alone about the whole magic thing. I mean, he was all for me quitting and it was a really hard decision; then all of a sudden he talks to this Travers guy and now it’s like they think _I_ have a ‘destiny’ too or something. Everybody has to have a darned destiny around here! This last time I told him doing magic is against my religion, and he acted like that was the craziest thing he’d ever heard, but I’m serious about this. I’ve been... I don’t know... off my spiritual path ever since Dad died. I want to try to find it again, get back to the way things were when I was happy with myself.”

“So you’re not going to meet with the lady from the coven then?” Buffy asked.

“No, I am,” Willow assured her. “She’s coming over Saturday night, you know, _after_ sunset. I’m hoping she can help with Mom and Amy. Then I can be done with this once and for all. Speaking of which, I don’t see why you don’t just get a real witch to do your locator spells and things like that.”

“I don’t know,” Buffy said, “I guess we might some, but Giles says they can get pretty expensive pretty quickly, and then... I think the Council has trust issues with most actual witches.”

“On account of they do what they do by calling on the forces of darkness?” Willow suggested in a bright, cheerful mock-innocent tone.

“More or less,” Buffy admitted. “Okay, Wil, I get your point. I’ll talk to Giles, tell him to back off, and if Peter has a problem with it, he can talk to me about it.”

“Well at least it’s almost the weekend,” Willow said, trying to be cheerful. “I mean, it should be a week, and I’m going to spend most of it doing my homework and praying, because Oz is back in ICU with that pneumonia, but still, it’s _kind of_ a break.” Today should have been the start of Spring Break, but Snyder had cut it back to three days, the following Wednesday through Friday, to make up for the day and a half lost after the shooting.

“I’m kind of afraid of the weekend actually,” Buffy confided. “What with the tag team Watch-a-thon, it seems like school is the only break I get anymore.”

“Well maybe you just have to take a break anyway,” Willow argued, “We could go to the mall on Sunday and shop for baby clothes. Cordelia will definitely come. She’ll do anything to get out of the house. I mean, even God only works six days a week, Buffy.”

“Yeah, well, God’s not married to Giles,” Buffy pointed out.

Willow gave her a look. The kind of look that would have been over the top of her glasses if she wore glasses. “Buffy, did you just tell me you don’t think your _husband_ will _let_ you go shopping this weekend?”

“No,” Buffy said making a sort of apologetic face, “I didn’t say that... exactly. I mean I’m sure I can if I want to... and I actually do need new clothes for school, you know that I can actually fasten correctly... so I want to, so I will.”

“Well good,” said Willow, “because I don’t want to have to give you one of _Mom’s_ lectures on the evils of Patriarchy.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Buffy assured her. “I am Woman, hear me shop. Surly Giles and Peter can find something else to obsess over for one afternoon.”

 ****

As Giles walked from his garage to his front door, arms full of groceries, there was a bit of a spring in his step and he found himself whistling a little. It had been a busy couple of weeks getting Buffy’s new Watcher into the swing of things, but Peter had called this morning to say that he was closing on a house this afternoon and he’d be spending the weekend getting it ready for the imminent arrival of his wife and children. They’d both agreed, with things being relatively calm, there was no need for Buffy to do more than a routine nightly patrol for the next few days. Giles was looking forward to a relaxing and (hopefully) romantic weekend.

He became slightly less optimistic about that prospect when he saw his father-in-law, Hank Summers, standing on his doorstep, or rather, leaning back against his door with both his arms and his legs crossed, heals resting on the front mat in an unnervingly ‘Western’ sort of way. If this posture was meant to be intimidating, the effect was somewhat spoiled by his pastel orange polo shirt and nervous, pained, almost smile. It was not yet one o’clock. He obviously wasn’t expecting Buffy at this hour.

“Erm... how do you do?” Giles said, not sure what the proper protocol might be for introducing oneself to a virtual stranger after absconding with his teenage daughter against the peace and dignity of the State of California.

“Never been better,” Hank said dryly. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, I agree,” Giles said, “I hope for the same reasons. Won’t you com—Well actually, I shall have to trouble you to hold one of these while I fetch my keys if you don’t mind.” Hank’s expression said that he did mind, just a little, but he got to his feet, uncrossed his arms and took the bag.

“You don’t seem much like her type,” He observed sourly as the Englishman fumbled in his coat pocket with his one free hand. Hank honestly couldn’t imagine his fast-living, thug-chasing, juvenile delinquent daughter falling for _this_ guy, even if she knew for a fact that he had killed two women in a previous life. Hell, even before she’d gone off the deep end, Buffy had always dated jocks, kids that were muscular and big for their age. This guy looked like he had been the debate captain of a very exclusive private school once upon a _long_ time ago. He was just a little bit on the tall side, Hank realized, probably about six feet, and not obviously thin or fat, but somehow he didn’t come across as athletic. If he had a sport, it was probably tennis or fencing.

“Yes... well...” muttered his tweed clad, bespectacled host, coming up with a set of keys at last, “as I was saying, won’t you please come in?” Sure enough there were actually a couple of swords displayed on one wall. Not in glass cases either. In those kind of metal brackets where you could get at them. “I just put those up,” Giles said, noticing him noticing the swords. “I’m afraid we’ve had to do a little bit of redecorating, erm closet space being suddenly at a premium.” He called over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen, set the grocery bags on the counter and quickly put the few perishables in the refrigerator. “I’ve been putting up a lot of decorative items that had been in boxes up to now.”

Hanks regarded the weapons critically, evaluating them and their owner. They didn’t look like ‘decorative items.’ They looked like they were made to be used and had been. They looked sharp and sturdy. Otherwise, the place looked like the den of some bookish hermit. There were full bookcases and piled-up end tables everywhere. Green glass lamps and comfortably worn upholstery. The phrase ‘neatly cluttered’ came to mind. There did indeed seem to be an excess of framed prints, photographs and vintage concert posters (Jimmy Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, The Who, The Doors, The Velvet Underground, half a dozen others) on the walls, though probably not enough to accommodate Buffy’s need for closet space.

“Please, have a seat,” said Giles politely, walking back into the living room. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Bourbon, strait” Hank said, still standing.

“I’m afraid all I have is Scotch,” Giles apologized, pouring two glasses. If the label on the bottle was right, as far as Hank could see, he didn’t have anything to apologize for. It was a fifteen-year-old single malt. He didn’t recognize the brand but it looked expensive.

They sat for a moment in silence drinking their whiskey “What are we drinking to?” Hank asked after a while.

Giles smiled, “To Buffy, I suppose, unless you can think of something else of which we’re both sufficiently fond.”

“To Buffy,” Hank agreed raising his glass.

“Her health and happiness,” Giles replied. They both drank.

After another moment of silence Hank asked, “Do you have children, Mr. Giles?”

Giles chuckled very, very slightly. “That’s almost getting to be a philosophical question at this point,” he said, “but no, up to now I haven’t. And please call me Rupert, or just Giles. That’s what I mostly end up being called.”

“Things haven’t been right between me and Buffy for a long time,” Hank confessed, more or less ignoring him. “I guess my moving out didn’t help things any, but things were... out of control long before that. Now this... insanity. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to say to her.”

“I supposed it would be too much to ask of you to try to see our marriage as a positive development,” Giles observed, “but I might at least point out that it’s not your responsibility to try to control her anymore, which to my mind ought to simplify the task of repairing your relationship.”

Hank laughed. “Which is exactly the kind of thing a person would think that’s never had children,” he said. “Just because you’re not able to protect your kids, even from themselves, that doesn’t mean you stop trying.” Giles refrained from pointing out that this was utterly inconsistent with what he’d said when he stomped out of their wedding. The whole point of this exercise was to try to repair the rift between Buffy and her father, not to widen it further.

“I appreciate the fact that you want to protect your family,” he said instead. “But I think you need to appreciate the fact that I feel exactly the same way. Buffy and I are a done deal. I’m not going anywhere.” As Giles said this, he knew that it was absolutely true, but the possible consequences of that truth made him almost physically ill. If he were Stricken, Buffy really would be better off without him, but she would never see it that way, and he would never willingly leave her against her will.

Hank shrugged, “I don’t know you,” he said, “but I know my daughter. She’s going to get over you pretty quick. What are you going to do when the police call you at two a.m. to say they found her out somewhere raising hell with some other guy?”

“I’d never believe it of her,” Giles assured him, “and if you would, you don’t know her as well as you think you do. That certainly isn’t how she behaved this summer, is it?”

“And how many suspected arson incidents had she been involved with since then?” Hanks challenged.

“At least one, possibly two,” Giles admitted, “erm... three at the outside, but I honestly believe all of that is behind her. At any rate, you needn’t talk about her as though she were some sort of... deviant. She is my wife, whether you approve or not. I assume your ultimate purpose in coming here was to find a way back into Buffy’s life, that you feel the need to clear the air, as it were, with me in anticipation of that. If so, I fail to see the percentage in trying to convince me of her bad qualities. If your prediction is correct, I should hardly think it would matter what you or I think of one another, and if not, you ought to agree I’ve a right to be offended, have I not?”

“God, where did you learn to talk like that?” Hank asked derisively.

“Walsington and Oxford,” Giles informed him coolly.

“Oxford huh?” Hank asked skeptically, “What in?”

“History,” he said patience wearing a little, “in which subject I later took a doctorate at the University of London. I also have graduate degrees in Anthropology, Archeology and Paleolinguistics from some of the top Universities in Europe.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed with that?” said Hank a little sullenly. “I have an MBA. I’m not some idiot you can push around with your authoritative tone and your highbrow accent.”

“Good lord!” Giles chided, unable to hide his frustration. “What on Earth have I said to have invited a response like that? I’m only trying to give you some idea to whom your daughter is married, but it’s rather difficult when you go out of your way to see everything single thing about me as a negative.”

Hank was quiet a moment, seeming slightly abashed but also still a little bristly. “I know I ought to be _glad_ Buffy married someone with an education and prospects and not some crack addict who dropped out of high school to work as a box boy,” he conceded. “But I look at you and I look at Buffy and I think, ‘what could these two possibly have in common?’ And only one thing comes to mind. It bothers me, even if you do have a fifty dollar piece of paper that says it’s not supposed to.”

“I admit its... odd,” Giles said, feeling a little sympathy for the father’s position, “you and I being contemporaries. But I love your daughter, and I don’t mean that as a euphemism or an excuse for some more... prosaic form of interest in her. It’s true; we do have very different backgrounds and tastes and views and interests. We don’t always understand or agree with one another. And I suspect she cares almost as much about the historical development of modern civilization as I do about the scoring system for Olympic figure skating. But that doesn’t mean we have nothing to share with one another on an emotional or intellectual level. Nor does it mean that I see her only as... a means to an end. Buffy’s happiness is the most important thing in the world to me. There is no one and nothing in my life that matters half so much as she does.”

Again Hank was quiet for a long moment. It was hard to know how he was taking all of this. “My glass is empty,” he said at length.

“I’m not sure more alcohol is really what the circumstances call for,” Giles pointed out. “Why don’t you let me make us a cup of tea?” Hank shrugged and followed Giles into the kitchen, sitting down at the table while he put the kettle on.

“What’s this?” he asked, picking up a soft-bound leather volume positioned in the exact center of the table, “some kind of historical document?”

“Most likely,” Giles murmured, puzzled, taking the book from his outstretched hand. He was sure he hadn’t left any books on the kitchen table this morning, and the breakfast things had still been spread all over it when Buffy had left. He’d cleared them off afterward.

Taking a seat, he opened the volume to one of several bookmarked pages and found himself reading a handwritten journal entry dated 20, February, 1926:

_Helena bore me a son today. Lyvia called to tell me so. She told me the boy is called Andrew and weighs very nearly eight and a half pounds. ‘I feel almost as though I should congratulate you, Peter’ she said, ‘he’s such a fine, strong boy and Helena is so happy and so proud.’..._

_In a strange way, I find the date quite fitting. It feels very much like redemption. I am quite as proud today as I was ashamed one year ago..._

_Matters between Myrna and I are quite as bad as ever though not particularly worse for today’s news..._

“Good Lord!” Giles gasped, bowled over by the significance of what he was reading. Quickly he thumbed through the earlier bookmarks until he found the first one dated after February 20th, 1925. “God have mercy,” he murmured, and quickly found his way to the middle of May then forward to June and backwards from there to April and March. Even though he was sitting down, he felt he needed to sit down. He found himself holding on to the table with one hand. The dizzying shifts in historical perspective gave him a sort of vertigo.

Hank was staring at him. “Are you alright?” he asked sounding genuinely concerned.

“Never better,” Giles murmured automatically, then smiled as the statement suddenly became true.

“What is it?” Hank asked, still eying him like he might detonate at any moment.

“It’s just... something I’ve been looking for for quite some time,” Giles answered, forcing himself to close the journal and meet his companion’s eyes. And this too was the truth. He must have a friend out there somewhere after all. Or at least an enemy of an enemy. He had just been handed a very, very big stick. One that could be used to thrash both Quentin and Andrew within an inch of their lives.

****

Buffy thought it was strange that Peter wasn’t waiting for her in the park across from the school. He hadn’t said anything about meeting at the gym or the house or anywhere else. Her Slayer sense told her to be very, very worried. She called Giles. “It is a bit strange that Peter didn’t give you a call,” he admitted. “I suppose he must have meant for me to tell you. I can be there to pick you up in five minutes. I’d have been there already, but I’ve had a visitor here most of the afternoon and I suppose we lost track of time.”

“Who’s we,” Buffy asked warily, still not quite able to quell her anxiety.

“You’re father dropped by for a chat this afternoon,” he explained sounding remarkably cheerful about it. “In fact, he’s planning on taking us to dinner later to celebrate our marriage.”

“Get out!” said Buffy, pleasantly shocked, forgetting the absence of Peter Travers at once. “What did you do, put a spell on him?”

“Actually no,” Giles smiled. “We... aired our fears and resentments at one another just a bit, I tried to give him some assurances that my interest in you is not entirely selfish and superficial, then I read him something his mother wrote when he was a small boy, and we spent the rest of the afternoon talking about...” Buffy could hear Giles smile at some joke she was not in on, “our children’s future. He seems a basically decent fellow if a bit pig headed,” he concluded cheerfully.

“Please tell me he’s not standing there listening to this,” Buffy said.

“No,” Giles assured her. “He went to the mall to get a coat and tie, which he determined to be more ‘cost effective’ than driving back to L.A. to change clothes. I believe the idea is to take us someplace nice, which I take to mean expensive enough that he hopes I’ll be impressed or intimidated or something of the sort.”

“He wants to be the Big Man,” Buffy agreed.

“Whatever makes him feel comfortable,” Giles said affably.

“Alright, out with it,” Buffy said finally, when Giles showed up five minutes later grinning from ear to ear and almost literally hopped out to open her door. “Why are you in such a good mood?”

“Because God is in his heaven and all is right with the world,” he said in a way that seemed only very slightly ironic.

“And because we’re, hopefully, about to have the kind of weekend that we can spend relaxing instead of waiting for the other jackboot to drop?”

“Precisely,” Giles laughed, as Buffy walked right around the door he held open for her and got in on the driver’s side. “We’re going to Willow’s,” he informed her, “I need her to show me how to...erm...‘scan’ something into the computer and send it to someone anonymously.”

****

“I don’t get how this is even supposed to work,” Harmony pouted, trying to brush the filth of the filthy tunnel off of her filthy clothes with her filthy hands.

“It’s amazingly simple,” Spike explained in a bright, sarcastically instructional tone. “Buffy trusts him. She’ll let him in without even thinking about it. In fact, she won’t have to. All he’ll have to do is call her and she’ll come to him. And before she even knows what’s happening, pop! Slayer’s blood everywhere, like champagne.”

“Oh, I understand _that_ part,” Harmony assured him impatiently. “I mean I don’t get how we’re supposed to get into his house in the first place.”

“That’s easy,” Spike grinned, striking another firm blow at the basement wall with his pick ax, “it isn’t his house yet.”

****

It was a slow afternoon at the Gallery. Joyce thought again of calling Buffy, but she didn’t want to bother her. Technically, it had only been four days since she’d talked to her, though it had been two weeks today since she’d actually seen her. She supposed four days was not a terribly long time to go without calling your mother once you were grown and out of the house. Especially if you were newly married and very, very busy. But it was still a long time to go without hearing from your daughter. Especially if she was only seventeen, newly pregnant and in mortal danger every single night.

She thought about texting her, just to make sure she was alive, but in this town, dead people could text back. Of course, for that matter, they could also call their mothers. Would she be able to tell over the phone? She thought of Myra Loving, who seemed almost human in person. For all Joyce knew, her daughter and son-in-law could have been dead for two weeks.

She was seriously thinking of closing early and dropping in on them when the sound of the door chime caused her to look up. It was her neighbor across the street, the antique store owner, Brian something? He was really quite a good looking man. Joyce had been so preoccupied the day she’d gone over there she hadn’t really noticed him. She noticed him now. She noticed him noticing her, specifically.

“I just dropped by to see how that table is working out for you,” he lied.

“It’s just what I needed,” she assured him with more enthusiasm than she knew she ought to show, or feel for that matter. He was just a neighbor being friendly, she scolded herself, or at most a man showing a mild hint of preliminary interest in her. It wasn’t as though she were on the verge of being asked out.

“I was hoping you might be able to show me some of those copper casts we talked about,” he lied again. It took another hour to get to the truth, which was that he’d be very, very happy if she’d join him for dinner.

“I’d love to,” Joyce said. And that was the truth too. But first she texted Buffy, just to make sure she was alive.

****

“That’s kind of melodramatic,” Hank observed, reading over Buffy’s shoulder as they waited for their table. “When did your mom get to be such a worrier?”

“She’s being ironic,” Buffy lied as she texted her mother to confirm she was alive and well. “She just means she wanted to see how we were doing.”

“Having dinner with Dad,” she added when Hank turned his attention to the hostess, who was telling him it would be just another minute. “He seems to be coming around.”And it seemed like he really, really was. In fact, there were moments when it seemed like he and Giles were almost getting along too well. They spent at least half the meal talking about their various youthful travels in Europe, during which Buffy didn’t have much more to say than ‘gee that sounds like it would be fun,’ but on the whole she really didn’t mind. She was just glad they weren’t fighting.

“Well we’re going to London in April, though,” Buffy finally said, just for the sake of having a place in the conversation. The look Giles gave her made her immediately wish she hadn’t. Obviously he didn’t want her to talk about it, but why not? Did he actually think she was going to tell her Dad that they were going there to be disciplined by a powerful secret organization ‘older than the Roman Catholic Church’ that ‘operated at a level above the nation state’?

“Really, what for?” Hank asked.

Okay... so she should have expected that one. “Well um, you know, just to um... you know...” Buffy felt her way towards a reason she wasn’t finding.

“Some... family business,” Giles interjected, “probate... financial... court sort of thing, all to do with real estate, I won’t bore you with the details.”

Hank shrugged, “I’m a CFO,” he reminded him, smiling. “Try to bore me, I dare you.”

“Well I’m really not sure I understand it half so well as my lawyer does,” Giles apologized. “But he tells me there is nothing for it but that we have to be there and it may take quite some time.”

“Well how long are you going for?” Hank asked.

“At least a week, perhaps two,” Giles told him.

“Which will give us time to see like tons of stuff,” Buffy interjected trying to get the conversation back to the fun, friendly space it had been in before she opened her big mouth. “And I plan to do an insane amount of shopping.”

“Erm, time and budget permitting,” Giles interjected worriedly.

“So Buffy’s going to be missing a week or two of school to be there?” Hank asked, decidedly unpleased. “After all the school she’s already missed? Is she even going to finish the semester?”

“ _She_ is doing just fine in school and _she_ can figure it out,” Buffy said pointedly, annoyed to be, once again, discussed as though she weren’t even in the room.

“Surely a guy like you understands the value of her getting an education,” Hank went on arguing to Giles, ignoring Buffy completely.

“Buffy and I both understand the value of education,” he informed her father coolly, “and are arranging for it as we think best, aren’t we, My Dear?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “we are.”

“So is she going to finish the semester or not?” Hank demanded.

“I... should be able to,” Buffy said, though she’d actually given it no thought at all, “and if I do end up with a couple of incompletes... that’s why God created Summer School. This is... business stuff,” she said grasping at an explanation her father could appreciate, “it’s important.”

“But does _Buffy_ have to be there?” Hank persisted, “She obviously doesn’t know anything about it.”

“My name was on the Summons,” Buffy replied, pretending her father was addressing her and not her husband.

“I assure you,” Giles told Hank, “I am not going to let your daughter go without an education.” He took her hand in his. “I married her for a partner,” he said, “not a... housekeeper.”

Hanks seemed less than completely satisfied, but for once, he let it go. “At least it will give you a chance to introduce Buffy to your family,” he pointed out. “They’ll love her, everyone does.” Buffy thought she could hear him leaving out, ‘at first,’ but maybe she was just being paranoid. “Do you have much family over there?” he asked when Giles didn’t say anything in response to that.

“Well... yes and no,” Giles said reticently. “Not much that... I’m particularly close to, but Buffy should meet a few of my relatives along the way. And... there’s my _father_ of course,” he added, unable to keep a note of disdain out of his voice. Hank let that one go too. He seemed to be working very hard at not creating needless conflict, and fairly successfully. The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough, though the conversation never got back the easy, friendly quality that it had had (between the two men at least) before Buffy brought up London.

When they got home, Giles was quiet, distant sort of. He seemed to be crashing from whatever he’d been so high about before dinner. Buffy left him alone. She didn’t feel much like talking herself. She tried to keep from thinking about what was going to happen in London in April and what was going to happen (with school and everything else) because of it. She read a little in the Handbook then went out to do her patrol while Giles leafed through some ancient books of prophesy, taking a few notes.

He was asleep when she got home, with his glasses still on. Again. His night table was piled with research materials, including the handwritten journal he had taken in at Willow’s. There was a document lying on the bed, as if he’d fallen asleep reading it. Buffy picked it up, not wanting it to get damaged. It was a copy, not the original, of a type written letter dated Sunday, November 24, 1963, addressed to the General Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party and signed ‘Maria Summers.’ With a thrill of foreboding, Buffy stood holding the letter under the lamp on Giles’ bedside table and began to read.

****

Zanya lay in the dark, heart hammering holding in a scream, not knowing where she was or who might hear her. She was cold. She was naked. She was drenched in sweat. The place where she lay was as dark as the hold of the _Dama Fortuna_ , but deathly still. It stank of blood. “I’ll be damned!” gasped the most familiar voice in the world. Most familiar and most precious. Zanya’s heart leapt into her throat. For a moment she stopped breathing. “Or maybe not!” he exclaimed, laughing with wild joy.

Zanya staggered to her feet, heart pounding harder than ever. “Tommy!” she cried out starting blindly in his direction. Almost at once she tripped and fell over someone lying on the damp stone floor. The stranger stirred and groaned as Zanya struggled, panicked, to regain her feet. Suddenly, light bloomed in the darkness. Tommy stood at its center, miracle that he was. Smiling in the glow of the large standing candle, he let the dead match fall from his hand and made his way towards her as swiftly as he could over and around the dozen or more naked groaning strangers, who were rising like the dead in Christ at the last judgment.

Weeping, Zanya fell into Tommy’s arms. “My baby! My Baby!” she cried, clinging to him fiercely. “They told me you were dead! They told me...” she was assaulted by a horrible memory. A memory? A dream? A nightmare. Violation beyond rape beyond murder, a monster rising from the coffin of her fallen love, the chill of death on its lips. But the lips that soon found hers were as warm as the arms that enfolded her. “You’re alive!” she sobbed, overcome with joy, “You’re alive! You’re alive! You’re alive!”

“Praise God!” Tommy cried, suddenly overcome himself, “Praise God! Praise God! We’re alive!”

****

“Oh, oh. Oh my!” Joyce gasped. She was leaning forward across her new dining table, holding on with both hands, still dressed except for her heels, hose and underwear, skirt and slip pushed up above her waist, legs slightly spread apart for Brian to stand between them. She had always known, of course, that men and their parts came in various sizes and that the same was more or less true of women. What she hadn’t known was what would happen if you found one of each that were exactly the right size to match. What was happening was goddamned amazing sex and it was happening to Joyce Summers for the first time in a very, very long time.

“Oh God,” Brian moaned, “I’m gonna come.”

“Yes, Mmmmmm, Yes!” Joyce said, not in response to what he was saying, but in response to her own orgasm. She bucked her hips backwards against him as he thrust into her several more time, hard and fast, before coming inside of her.

They both stood leaning on the table for a while, gasping for air. “Exactly what we needed,” Brian mused breathlessly.

Suddenly, Joyce was very slightly embarrassed. “I hope you don’t think I’m always this... aggressive on a first date,” she said, almost apologetically, smoothing her skirt back into place.

Brian pulled his pants back up from around his ankles and zipped them. “Of course not,” he said.

“It’s just been a really long time,” she said.

“And here I was thinking it was because I’m so wonderful and special,” he teased, sitting down in one of the solid oak dining chairs.

“Believe me,” said Joyce, taking a seat next to him, “you are. If I didn’t think so I wouldn’t have... no matter how long it’s been. Although it does get... quiet here, I admit that.”

“It’s funny,” he said, “from the way you talked when you were looking at tables, I got the impression you had a whole house full of family.”

“Oh I did for a couple of days there,” she assured him. “My daughter and ...” she laughed dryly, “my uh ‘son-in-law’ (I still have trouble calling him that) along with some other friends and relatives, but they’re all gone now.”

“You probably get tired of hearing this,” Brian said, “but you don’t look old enough to have a grown daughter.”

“I don’t feel old enough either,” Joyce said, “but I guess I am since I’m about to be somebody’s grandmother.”

“You _don’t_ feel old enough for that,” Brian agreed, smiling.

Joyce smiled back, pleasantly embarrassed. “You could stay tonight,” she said, “if you don’t have any place else you have to be.”

“I’d stay even if I did,” Brian said, still smiling.

****

“All hail the return of the gainfully employed!” Xander declared, taking the giant cross from around his neck as soon as he’d bolted the door. It was after midnight. Willow was sitting on the couch in front of the TV holding Amy on her lap pretending she hadn’t stayed up _just_ to make sure he’d survived his first shift at the Quick Mart, but she had. “Man that was ‘fun’!” he added, taking off his coat, “Nobody comes in after ten except demons, and all they do is shoplift. Which the manager says comes out of our pay. If I’d have known that, I’d have called Buffy. Next time, I’m calling Buffy!”

“You should,” Willow agreed, slightly distracted. Amy kept shifting on her lap, trying to get comfortable. “Aww,” she said, with saccharine sympathy, “is that big fat belly starting to get in your way.” She turned Amy over and rubbed her belly. “Maybe we should put you on a d—” Willow froze. A scream caught in her throat and filtered out as a miserable whimper.

“What is it?” Xander asked, suddenly tense.

Willow was paralyzed with panic, yet she heard herself say, apparently quite calmly, before she even realized she was able to speak, “Oh, nothing... just, you know, everything.” She turned the squeaking, squirming Amy over and started stroking her back again. It simply could not be the case that when she had rubbed Amy’s belly, something inside had rubbed her back.

They all went to bed a few minutes later. Willow didn’t sleep. Finally, at three a.m., she got out of bed, opened up her laptop and googled “Rat Gestation.”

* * *

 

> Sunday, November 24, 1963
> 
> Re: My resignation from the service of the Party
> 
> Mr. Secretary:
> 
> You will notice that I am writing to you in English, and this is no accident. There comes a time in every person’s life when she has to take stock of who she is and what matters to her, to determine where her loyalties properly lie. I have been living for many years now, as you know, in the United States. I am not a girl, or a ghost or an ‘apparition.’ I am a woman and I am a mother and I am a human being.
> 
> I have been fighting this war since the age of sixteen for many of the reasons you well know. But when I see a good man gunned down in the streets by someone who claims to be my Comrade in arms, and for no other reason than that he speaks out for all of the things we say we are fighting to bring about (peace, tolerance, human dignity, human unity, human freedom) I begin to doubt that our struggle will ever bring about these things. The war is not aimed at these ends. It is not aimed at any end. It is an end in its self. It is not about liberty or equality or brotherhood, though that is what both of our ‘Revolutionary Republics’ say we want. It’s about power. Not the power to change the world for the better, but power for its own sake. It is not enough.
> 
> In both of our countries the policies pursued at the highest levels are nothing but pure imperialism. Corruption and oppression are rampant everywhere. Militarism stands above all else. It is almost as if we had lost the last war. I think that I would rather trust my child’s future to the marauders of Wall Street and the deceivers of Madison Avenue than to nurse him on the poisonous notion that armed conflict (or armed posturing as is more apparently the case) between two Empires will somehow bring about the world that Marx envisioned.
> 
> I am weary and wary of the new Orthodoxy that only the consolidation of the power of the Soviet Union can someday bring about the liberation of the world. It smacks of the same sort of ‘gradualism’ that tells people in this country who have waited one hundred years for their fellow citizens to see them as free, equal human beings that they ought to wait a little bit longer. I’m made sick by the notion that we have to conquer these people (the people I live and work among every day who are no different from people anywhere) in order to ‘save’ them from themselves. I am tired of firing into a continent.
> 
> I remain as ever dedicated to the creation of a free, equal, just and abundant civilization. But I am now convinced that working to advance the national policy of the Soviet Union in no way contributes to that goal. It is merely an attack upon the country in which my family and I must live. The Soviet Union is not loyal to the Revolution or to me and therefore I owe no corresponding duty of loyalty in return. My duty is as ever to the people of the Earth and also to my husband and to my son whose future I do cherish and will protect above all else by all means and against all enemies.
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> Your Comrade, no longer in arms,

  
  


_Maria Summers_

 


	11. The Things We Know...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew Giles and Quentin Travers suddenly find themselves quite motivated to help Giles avoid the Council's wrath, but is it to late to undo their own conniving against him? Even as he seems to be gaining ground in his struggle with the Council, Giles is forced to question everything he 'knows' about his family and himself. Except for his marriage to Buffy, which is going great, right? No, Xander and Willow's life as roommates is not too complicated (!) Not at all, especially when you take into account everything to do with Cordelia and Buffy and Amy and Oz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Penultimate Chapter of Part II: The Lesser Light

Andrew read through the document Ms. Winston, his personal assistant, had handed him three times before looking up into her puzzled, worried face again.

_27,June 1925_

_Helena Giles is pregnant with my child. She came to the shop this morning and told me so. Little Emma was playing so quietly in the floor with a pile of books that we’d had a fairly lengthy discussion of the matter before either of us remembered that she was in the room. Of course she hadn’t the slightest idea what we were discussing, but that didn’t stop her telling her mother (all in one breath, God bless her) ‘we seed Miss Helena t’day, she gived me canny, but she don’t want books ‘cause she’s pegnit wiff me, but Daddy sayed he don’t know why ‘cause he don’t get done wiff her!’ I thought I might literally die of embarrassment! Myrna was horrified, and devastated of course. She called for the nanny and kept her smile painted on until Emma and the twins and Baby Grace were all hurried off to the nursery, then she let me have it!_

‘ _Congratulations, Peter,’ she said to me, ‘you must be so very proud!’ and suggested that we let Emma pick a name for the child since she was already so well acquainted with the circumstances of conception. I think it was the first time in her life she’d ever employed sarcasm. It didn’t suit her and before I thought any better of it I told her so. Then she told me in some quite straightforward language indeed what she thought of me and of Helena. I almost literally had to bite my tongue to keep from defending Helena, but honestly what could I have said on her behalf? It wouldn’t have made sense to Myrna or almost anyone else to have explained that she had become pregnant in May because I raped her in February._

_I am relieved at least to be done with whatever this transaction between Helena and I might be called. I told Helena and Myrna both that in slightly different terms. Truthfully, matters between Helena and I are as near to normal as I think they are ever likely to be, and she continues to seem very much herself if a good deal more serious and aloof than previously. I am actually beginning to think that we are the creatures of a merciful God after all to have come through this with our souls more-or-less intact._

_Of course, God only knows what will happen when Helena’s condition becomes obvious to everyone. I don’t think too many people will suspect me, assuming Helena and Myrna both have better sense than to say anything to Lyvia. How the Council could have enrolled anyone as utterly incapable of keeping a secret as my sister is beyond me! I’m certain Helena will tell her father if she hasn’t already. The succession of the Weregelder Seat is a matter of intense personal interest to him, naturally, and she is entirely loyal to him. I can only hope she doesn’t tell him the worst facts of how this all came about. Either way, I can’t imagine that he will want the information to spread among the Council. I’m sure he still hopes to have Helena seated someday if he can manage it._

_As for Myrna, things between us have never been worse, not surprisingly. I think the only thing stopping her from leaving me is the fact that she is due to deliver at any moment. I won’t be terribly shocked if she literally attempts to murder me in the very near future. Nor, for that matter would I be pleased to see Mr. Giles standing at the end of a dark ally. I suppose I shall simply have to rely on the fact that they are persons of a more decent and civilized sort than myself._

“Who sent this?” He demanded. “Where did it come from?”

“I didn’t read it,” she volunteered worriedly, “not more than—”

“Enough to feel the need to tell me that!” he cut her off impatiently, waiving her to silence. “Never mind about that. Where did it come from?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, still agitated by the knowledge that he was agitated. He didn’t bother to hide it. A basic knowledge of reading and arithmetic was enough to tell her he was bound to be agitated, even if she had stopped after the first sentence, which he highly doubted. Ms. Winston was not one to pry, but she was a rapid and compulsive reader. He honestly wasn’t worried about that. She’d typed a fair bit of correspondence to several of the Traverses over the years, but he didn’t think she was well enough acquainted with the family to recognize them from this little vignette. Of course, any member or agent of the Council would have known them instantly.

“Well what did the computer... cyber... e... address...what-have-you say about it?”he demanded, pacing now. He’d had his suspicions... of course he’d had his suspicions, though he hadn’t had them soon enough, but unless this document had been specifically created to fool him, it seemed like fairly conclusive proof....

“Well...” she began apologetically, more worried than ever, “It _says_ it’s from speter@officesupplywearhouse.com... I opened the attachment thinking it was a sales flyer for print cartridges... But—”

Andrew let out a cry of anger and disgust. “Goddamn bastard!” He muttered, not quite under his breath, looking down at the paper in his hand. “Oh, erm... that will be all, thank you,” he said looking up at the still unpleasantly bewildered Ms. Winston. He was certain the document was authentic. His son wouldn’t dare bluff him on something this big. Not even in a matter of love and death. The handwriting was certainly Travers’. No doubt Rupert had the original, not merely of this entry but the whole journal.

Ms. Winston turned to leave, then hesitated, turning back again, her brow deeply furrowed. “Should I delete the email?” she asked.

“Yes, certainly,” Andrew told her. “If there should be any more,” he added after a scant moment of reflection, “print the attachments and give them to me before deleting them. Don’t read them.”

“Yes, Mr. Giles,” she replied with a touch of emotion that he recognized to his deep embarrassment as compassion, possibly even pity. The unseemliness of the whole business was nauseating, but then, that was life with Rupert.... or rather, he reminded himself, with Simon. Had he known how much of his real name he was signing? Was his information that complete? Andrew laughed bitterly. Probably not. If so he wouldn’t have sent an email. He’d have sent a letter bomb. No, Andrew decided, Rupert was merely combining the part of his name (as he knew it) with the part of Travers’ name that it obviously connected to, creating a moniker that was at once instantly identifiable (to his father if no one else) and utterly deniable.

There was no need for Andrew to ask himself _why_ Rupert had chosen this time or this method to inform him of his true parentage. Rupert had spent forty-five years begging, pleading and demanding to be told his mother’s identity. Yet having come into possession of the one piece of information that he had any hope of successfully bartering for that knowledge, he had immediately shown his hand to the enemy with an implicit threat to reveal it to the world, or at least, to the Council. Clearly there was one thing Rupert wanted more than knowledge. He wanted power. Influence. He wanted Andrew to stop the process that he himself had set in motion to have him Stricken from the Registry.

Bitterly as he hated being so manipulated, Andrew was not unwilling to do as his son demanded. He’d give anything to keep the contents of that journal under wraps, for more reasons, hopefully, than even Rupert knew. He only hoped it wasn’t too late. Even if no facts beyond this single page were revealed, clearly his public dignity and the reputations of both of his parents were at stake, the more so in all cases depending upon how literally Travers had meant what he’d written about the events of February, 1925.

Andrew had trouble taking the statement at face value. He could not imagine his mother having forgiven such a serious injury so quickly or completely. His best previous reason for suspecting that Travers might have fathered him was that Helena didn’t seem to like or respect or confide in any other man nearly so much. That and the seething hatred that both Myrna Travers and her only son had always shown to his entire family. Come to that, though he knew all too well that Peter Travers was no saint, he’d never seemed to be the type of man to be driven to disgrace by base impulsivity. He was the kind of man whose grave and infrequent sins tended to be premeditated. In terms of self-control, honor, integrity and nearly every other virtue, he was head and shoulders above his son.

“Oh damn it!” Andrew cried aloud. There was certainly no reason, given the position he was in, why Rupert would use this information to blackmail him and not use it simultaneously against Quentin. After all, the legitimate son of Peter Travers had more and more _direct_ control over votes in the upcoming Proceeding, not to mention the unique position he was in as Examiner. In terms of dignity and family reputation, as far as Rupert knew, he had at least as much to lose. In fact, suddenly, sickeningly, Andrew Giles knew what he would have to do to bring about the will of his conniving bastard son. He would have to conspire with his pompous, spiteful half-brother to undo all of the progress they’d separately made towards bringing the brigand to justice.

****

Virgil Gaudencio sat in his spare bedroom amidst tasteful, nondescript furnishings that meant absolutely nothing to him. He’d had the room redone at least three times over the years. There was nothing in it she had ever seen or touched, not even the glass in the windows. It was still her room. It would always be her room. Her life had ended here though it had taken her five years to die. He could see it happening all over again. Yet, he could see no better what to do, how to stop the forces that were already in motion. For all he knew, his vote to Strike Rupert would only hasten the Slayer’s destruction, would only drive her to defy the Council sooner rather than later. Yet, knowing what he knew, he could not help but think that she was better off without so false a friend as the son of Andrew Giles.

The recording Quentin had played in Secret Session had crystallized everything in Virgil’s mind. In that moment it had all been clear. But since casting his lot with those whose reasons, whose objects, he knew too well were not his own, he couldn’t stop mulling it over and over, wondering if he had made a mistake. In his mind, he listened to the recording again. The grooves of the record were cut into his brain.

 **Quentin:** “I was told I might find you here. I was told you wanted to speak with me.”

 **Rupert:** “Yes.”

 **Quentin:** “If you’re going to ask that I not vote to Strike you from the Registry, I’ll warn you, you are wasting your breath.”

 **Rupert:** “You’ve got a gun to Buffy’s head. Cruciamentum. If you want me to do something, ask.”

 **Quentin:** “You’ve never understood me, Rupert. I mean to test Buffy, not to kill her.”

 **Rupert:** “How magnanimous of you!”

 **Quentin:** “I’ve been given a sacred trust to conduct this Examination impartially, and I mean to. As for what to do about your family situation, each of us shall have to be guided by his own conscience when we deal with these matters in Council.”

 **Rupert:** “If you’ll let her live? I’ll take my son to London and leave his mother to her destiny!”

 **Quentin:** “No one is asking you to do that Rupert. That’s... not the way things are done anymore. You’ve made the choices you have knowing what the results could be. Now we must make our choices and you must live with them, as must we all.

 **Rupert:** “Go to Hell.”

The boy seemed to mean well enough. He meant to save the girl he loved. He meant to be the hero. But his way of going about it was so cold, so bloodless, so stoic, so like his father. Virgil knew all too well where that path led. There was a reason why that wasn’t the way things were done any longer. That reason was buried in the back garden of Andrew Giles’ house in Bath. The reason was Dahlia Harrow.

 ****

Edwards lay in Zanya’s arms, her loving, living arm and waited for the new day to dawn. They were the same arms that had cradled him to her breast as an infant, the same arms that pulled his body into hers when he became a man. It was her, really her. But he wasn’t really him. He had known the moment he’d looked upon the cross. He’d fallen to his knees, ready to praise God, but the demon in him had recoiled, sick with dread and knowledge. Whatever he felt, whatever he thought, whatever he remembered, Thomas Elwin Edwards was still dead, still damned, while his woman lay helplessly, unknowingly in the arms of a new creature never seen before on the face of the Earth. He was a living vampire.

He didn’t yet know what all the features and capabilities of this new type of demon might be. A little stealthy experimentation had been enough to show him that he still had enormous strength, so he assumed he had speed and grace as well. Not being a walking corpse, he doubted if he needed to drink human blood, but he had a taste and a craving for it. He was more or less taking on faith that his fully healed body was “strong enough to walk into the light” as Zanya (his other Zanya) had predicted. He hadn’t had a chance to check a mirror and the sacrificial pool was dry, but if it were really true that Angelus had had no reflection even when he’d had a soul, then the conventional explanation for that vampiric quality might be wrong. The same went for invitations and a million other things. He’d just have to wait and see.

He’d watched the thirteen other members of their congregation carefully throughout the evening trying to discern how many of his kind there were and how many of hers. For the most part they were circumspect, none wanting to give away his or her own status, fearing they were in the minority, watching each other carefully as they went about the business of foraging among the ruins for any scrap of cloth to wear or any crumb to eat. But some weren’t bright enough, or didn’t care enough to feign ignorance of how they’d come to be there. Within reason, he knew they had to be demons (Zanya clearly remembered nothing beyond her mortal death) but he watched for other signs to confirm each case. Pete cringed just a little in the presence of the cross. Freddy Ivers changed his face behind his hands when he thought no one was looking, smiling secretly at his own hidden power. Most didn’t do anything quite so obvious, but their caution itself indicated a suspiciously clear understanding of the situation and of its possibilities and dangers.

Within hours, Edwards had been sure the demons were easily in the majority. As soon as they figured that out, the humans (including Zanya) would be in grave danger. He had to get her to safety, and soon. But he feared that fleeing into the night would only call attention to her status as potential prey. They would wait until daybreak when the humans would be out in force. Then they would find some pretext to separate from the others and disappear. Edwards looked like a human, he smelled like a human, he _felt_ like a human, and God-be-damned he was going to live like one. He didn’t know what would happen to him, whether he would age and die and if so, then what, but he decided not to worry about it yet. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it, just like the rest of them.

 ****

By the time Buffy become aware of her own consciousness, Giles was already awake, silently watching her. He wasn’t brooding, exactly, but something in the air felt... tense and somehow sad. She kissed him and he smiled a little, but he barely kissed her back, still thinking about whatever he’d been thinking about. “What’s wrong,” she asked finally.

“What?” he asked, feigning puzzlement, “Nothing’s wrong.”

Buffy gave him a gentle, skeptical look. “You married an American,” she reminded him wrapping her serious concern in careful levity, “you’re not allowed to be all stiff-upper-lippy anymore. We’re supposed to have totally honest and open communications about everything. I heard it on television; it must be true.”

Giles was quiet for another long moment. He kissed Buffy on the forehead in a way that made her fear she was about to be dismissed without an answer, then he lay back on his pillow rubbed his temples a bit and sighed. “You asked me yesterday what I was so happy about,” he said at last. “It’s the same thing. I... wasn’t going to tell you. No good reason why not, mind you, just... habit I suppose. Just... being a Giles.” He laughed a little. “Excessively moderate and dangerously cautious.”

“What is it?” Buffy repeated, more confused and worried than ever. He seemed so very, very dejected about whatever to was that had made him so happy the day before.

“I discovered the identity of my paternal grandfather yesterday,” he explained gravely.

“Oh my God!” Buffy exclaimed, “Giles, that’s huge!” But she remained puzzled, “why the about face though?”

“I suppose it’s what you would call... processing,” he explained. “When I first learned of... my father’s origins, I didn’t quite think of the facts as entirely real or... personal. All I could think of was that I finally had a weapon to use against them. I’m blackmailing my father and... his half brother for votes in the Proceeding,” he clarified a little sheepishly in response to her questioning look.

“Wow,” said Buffy, joking to cover the fact that she didn’t quite know how to feel, “it’s a good thing you’re on our side.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Giles mumbled. Then he was quiet again for a bit. Thinking. Trying to put words to what he felt. Buffy waited patiently. “The strange thing the... _appalling_ thing really,” he said after a while, “is that it’s someone that I knew, or thought I knew and now... I keep replaying everything in my head, trying to make the information match and it... doesn’t.”

“Is it, is he... a terrible person?” Buffy guessed.

Giles brow furrowed. “That’s just it,” he said. “Until yesterday, I would have said he was a good man. I liked and respected him very much. And now....” He shook his head, still not seeming to believe what he was about to say, but finally, he came out with it. “Peter Travers _raped_ my grandmother.”

“Oh my God!” Buffy gasped in sympathetic horror.

“I’m not even sure that’s the worst part,” he went on. Buffy looked at him doubtfully, but when he’d told her the whole story she had to agree that Helena’s ‘vengeance’ had a sort of Gothic horror all its own.

She also wasn’t loving the part where a mysterious ‘friend’ was able to walk unnoticed into her kitchen and leave whatever type of dangerous object he had handy lying on the table. But Giles shrugged that part off with surprising nonchalance. “It’s a condo, Buffy, not a fortress, and we’re not always home” he pointed out. “A simple home invasion is not that hard to do or to get away with. I must have done it fifty times when I was working for Quentin.

“What bothers me most,” he went on when Buffy made no response to this reminder of his extensive criminal history, “more than the things that don’t fit or the things that suddenly fit too well, like Quentin’s hatred of our whole family... are the things I thought I knew that I had no real notion of at all. Instead of finding another great chunk of my heritage, I feel as though I’ve lost the piece I had. The Helena that Travers describes in the early part of his Journal, that happy optimistic woman, I never met her. Qualities I’ve always thought of as inherited from my grandmother, as essential to the Giles character: that mad excess of caution, that confidence restrained, that sense that you could remake the world on more sensible lines but you haven’t the right, that constant examination of one’s self and one’s motives and one’s actions for fault, for presumption, for hubris... these things were not born in her. He did that to her. To us. To me.

“She loved him like a brother. She trusted him completely and he betrayed her utterly. She hated him, and yet, she loved him still. He killed a part of her soul and she... transmitted the damage to her descendants along with his blood. It’s chilling. It’s almost... vampiric. And yet... my memories of him... and the things he himself wrote after the fact... he seems to have no more than the dimmest notion of what he has actually done! He professes to love her and my father. He always... behaved as though he cared for me, come to that. I can’t make any sense of it. I do not know who this man is. I hardly know who I am.”

“Well, I know who you are,” Buffy assured him with bedrock confidence. “You are not your father. Or your grandfather. Or your _grandmother_. Or one of the Council’s thugs. You are Rupert Simon Giles: loyal husband, brilliant scholar, amazing lover, brave and virtuous crusader in the battle against evil and loving father (certification pending). You are the one Watcher who was ready to ‘defy prophecy’ and face the Master in place of a sixteen-year-old girl who wasn’t quite ready to die. I haven’t forgotten that, and neither should you!”

**** 

Cordelia dressed quickly and quietly. Her keys were on the peg by the front door where she was now required to keep them, but the living room was all clear. She had them in her hand, her purse. She could have walked out the door, but there was no way to open the garage from the outside without the electric opener, which her father had confiscated. She would have to make her way through the dining room to the kitchen to the inside garage door.

The dining room was clear, but Garrett Chase was seated at the kitchen table behind the morning paper. Boldly, Cordelia walked straight past him, ignoring his presence, hoping he would do the same, willing him to understand her need to be anywhere but this house. “Where in the blazing fires of Hell do you think you are going?” he asked, his tone cool and deceptively casual.

“Out,” said Cordelia caustically.

“Out where?” her father asked conversationally, never looking up from his paper.

“For a drive,” Cordelia retorted bitterly.

“Who with?”her father asked, his tone subtly chillier.

“By myself,” she informed him resentfully. “The same way I do everything now.”

“That’s not what I hear from your principal,” he informed her, ice crystals forming on the words.

“So I talk to kids at school,” Cordelia admitted. “What do you want me to do? Walk around like a mime all day?”

Garrett folded the paper and looked his daughter in the eye at last. “I don’t want you talking to those girls,” he warned her fiercely. “At school or anywhere else. If you say so much as ‘goodbye’ to either of them you’ll be on the next flight to Switzerland to finish your education at St. Stephanie’s Convent, is that clear?”

“It is,” she replied coolly. She started for the garage door again.

“No,” he said flatly, sticking his nose back in the paper.

“I’m not seeing him,” she said, dropping her eyes, feigning meekness. “I don’t want to see him, ever again.”

“Hum,” Garrett said conversationally, “It says here that teenage suicide is becoming an epidemic. Leave the keys,” he added casually. Cordelia left them on the table and went back to her room. She knew when she could push him, when she could flatter him, when she could make him give in or back down. This was not one of those times. There were none of those times anymore.

In the old days she’d have spent the next five hours on the phone happily complaining about what had just happened. But in the old days most of her friends hadn’t been dead. She wouldn’t have let her father’s threats scare her out of talking to the ones who were alive either. Those days were gone. Her father was no longer charmed or disarmed by her. He didn’t trust her or take her stated motives or intentions at face value. He still underestimated her, but not nearly enough. Cordelia opened her books and started doing her homework. If there was one good thing about prison, it was a great place to study. For now, that was the most useful thing she could do to prepare herself for the challenges that lay ahead. Of course, not all of the books she studied from were school books. Not all of the lessons she read had been assigned. At least, not by any of the current faculty of Sunnydale High.

**** 

“Is she pregnant?” Dr. L’engle laughed. “She’s almost ready to deliver. Tonight, tomorrow, certainly no later than Monday. Looks like a big litter too! Congratulations!” Willow made a pitiful noise too anguished to be a whine and too high pitched to be a groan. “I take it this wasn’t a planned breeding?” asked the veterinarian, still unnervingly amused.

Willow shook her head. “We... they were both supposed to be girls,” she said weakly.

The doctor laughed. “Sometimes it can be a little hard to tell with rats, especially when they’re young. Don’t worry,” he added in an encouraging tone, seeing but not understanding the depth of Willow’s distress. “If you’re not able to find homes for all of them, you can always sell them to a pet store for snake food, or drown them in the sink. It’s more or less painless,” he tried to reassure her, seeing her deepening horror.

“Drowning or being eaten alive?” Willow asked, appalled. “I mean... aren’t vets supposed to _like_ animals?”

Dr. L’engle shrugged. “I’m really more of a cat person,” he admitted.

Willow suddenly felt like a rat trapped in the small exam room with a cat. Or maybe she just felt trapped. She was having trouble breathing. “Excuse me,” she mumbled, grabbing Amy’s cage and heading for the exit. “We have to go home and... get ready.”

 ****

Spike flicked his cigarette lighter and looked at his watch. “Hey!” said Harmony petulantly, “Watch it! You almost got my hair.” Spike ignored her. It was 12:55. The closing was set for 3:00.

“Come on,” he said. They had breached the basement wall the night before, but hadn’t stayed there, not wanting to get caught in a last minute walk through. That could still happen, but the chance was diminishing. Besides, they couldn’t risk waiting any longer. Watchers had a nasty habit of being early for everything and it was impossible to imagine an estate agent delaying an opportunity to make a commission.

The breach opened into a two foot by four foot storage closet, which was no accident. The closet was filled with densely packed junk (old paint cans, scrap wood, two nonfunctional bicycles, bent venetian blinds, etc.) which was just plain, old-fashioned good luck. It also had a magically untouchable door so that it could not be opened from the inside by any amount of force, which was inconvenient, but in Sunnydale, not totally unexpected. The vampires hollowed out a space by throwing most of the junk down the tunnel, hiding their work with a painter’s tarp draped over a ladder just inside the doorway. They also kept a leaky beanbag chair for the sake of comfort. It could be several days before the humans moved in sufficiently to spend the night.

 ****

Joyce lay in Brian’s arms bliss mingling with regret. “I have to go,” she told him. “Long lunches are bad for business.”

“You can’t go yet,” he protested. “You haven’t eaten anything.”

“It’s Saturday,” she argued reasonably, “it’s my best business day. Yours too, I’d bet.”

“Then we’ll starve to death for love!” Brian declared. “It’ll be romantic!”

Joyce gave him a happily reproachful look. She could have lain in his arms forever and let the whole world go to hell. But then, she wouldn’t have been Joyce Summers. Joyce Nuland maybe, but those days were long over. Romantic daring in the face of death and financial ruin was Buffy’s department. Mom’s job was to pay to mortgage, to make sure she always had a home to come home to regardless of the success of her romantic adventures. “Tomorrow is a good day to die,” she joked apologetically. “Today I have to work.”

 ****

The limousine rolled on in silence most of the way home from the theater. The glass partition was up. They were essentially alone. “I’ve known you long enough to know when there’s something wrong,” Gale Travers said quietly. Her husband didn’t look up from the playbill he was pretending to read. “You’ve been... distant all evening.” She persisted.

Quentin glanced up at her over the top of the playbill at last. “It’s nothing,” he said blandly. “Just work,” he added, feeling the continued weight of her gaze.

“Is it... something to do with Peter?” she asked with quiet worry.

“No,” her husband lied.

“The missing girl?” Gale guessed again, getting further from the mark. Quentin gave her a stern look. Gale dropped her eyes and pursed her lips. One more thing she wasn’t supposed to know. She was always either too stupid to be Quentin’s wife or not stupid enough. It was like being a Mafia wife she thought, not for the first time. “Elaine and the children are coming to lunch tomorrow,” she said with quiet, subtle resentment as the car pulled into their street. “Their flight leaves for America at four.”

Quentin looked up as if contemplating a response, then looked past her, through the car window, distinctly unpleased with what he saw. Gale followed her husband’s gaze. Leaning ‘casually’ against the front of their large, comfortable home, regarding a copy of the _Times_ in rather the same way her husband had just been doing to his playbill, was a gray bearded old gentleman long past the period in his life when it would have seemed natural to find him leaning against a building at nine-thirty at night. It was Andrew Giles.

“Good evening, Professor,” Gale said, quite as pleasantly as though she were actually pleased to see him. Mr. Giles folded his newspaper under one arm and nodded to her politely. She went upstairs to bed, like a good wife, and left the men to talk about their business.

“I thought you wanted Rupert Stricken,” Quentin said bluntly the moment they were alone.

“I did,” Andrew replied, then, catching the full implication, “Good God! You certainly can’t think I have any desire for this... information to be known!”

Quentin smiled. “So he is his father’s son after all.”

“Aren’t we all?” said Andrew dryly.

Quentin brooded a moment. “I’m not quite sure I ever knew my father,” he said quietly, almost remorsefully. Andrew said nothing. As suggestive as the passage was that he had read, the breadth of Quentin’s baleful pronouncement, his sudden reevaluation Peter’s character, seemed to indicate a deeper acquaintance with the events of February to May, 1925 than Andrew could claim, which tended to confirm his suspicion that Rupert may not have sent them quite the same pages to contemplate. If Quentin assumed that he had, he might give away additional information without knowing it.

“We are our fathers’ sons,” Andrew said with calculated magnanimity, “But we are not our fathers.”

A sudden look of hostility, of resentment, flashed in Quentin’s eyes but he suppressed it. “How many votes have we got between us?” he asked at length.

Certainly a more productive topic for discussion, Andrew had to admit. “I can deliver at least twelve,” he estimated pensively, “Possibly fifteen. Several of those are from your house though, so let’s not count them twice.”

They went through them one by one, naming names. As things stood, they could be sure of only 42 votes, including all those they believed would follow Robson, Crowne and Davidson. They could hope for only 51. “Sterling can bring in five or six more,” Andrew noted, “if I can manage to turn her back around.”

“That’s a big ‘if’,” Quentin pointed out. “We’re playing long odds to get to 56.”

“I’m not a betting man,” said Andrew grimly. They both knew that with his luck he couldn’t afford to be. “What in the name of Hell did you do to turn Virgil against Rupert, and how can we undo it?”

“I made him feel that Rupert is more his father’s son than his mother’s,” Quentin admitted, bitterly amused at himself. “By means I’d rather he not know that I’d employed. I don’t know that it can be undone without causing me even more trouble than... our common problem.”

Andrew laughed mirthlessly. “Those must be quite some means indeed! Or don’t you agree that ‘our common problem’ may cause no end of trouble for all three—all seven of us, really, and all our assorted descendants?”

“‘No end of trouble in any sense’,” Quentin agreed with a sneer, in a tone that suggested he was quoting something. Possibly his pages of the journal? Possibly. Andrew didn't want to assume too much.

“So what worthy deeds, oh son of St. Peter, have you done to earn even more trouble for yourself?” Andrew goaded Quentin witheringly, hoping he would say more.

“I did what I thought needed to be done,” said Quentin piously. “We’ve both done worse when the circumstances demanded it.” A smile spread over Quentin’s face as a new thought occurred to him. “That may actually be to our advantage in this case,” he said.

“How so?” Andrew asked warily.

“It matters a great deal what Virgil thinks of me,” Quentin pointed out. “I hope to sit in Council with him for quite a few years yet. But of you on the other hand...”

Andrew laughed bitterly, “...of me he could not possibly think less. Very well, _dear brother Isaac_ , what further sins can I heap upon my back before you drive me out into the wilderness?”

 ****

Xander was gone to work when Willow got home from the vet’s office. She thought about calling Buffy. But the truth was she didn’t want Buffy, or Giles, or anyone else to know that she’d fathered a litter of rats with Amy Madison. This was her problem, the result of her own bad behavior. She just had to deal with it the best she could and suffer the consequences.

Right now, the only thing she knew to do was to help Amy make her cage into a comfortable nesting place. The rat breeding blogs said to give her plenty to eat and drink and lots of newspaper to shred. Since the hour was so close at hand, Willow shredded the paper for her. Amy reshredded it. “I never could do anything to please you,” Willow grumbled. But she knew her resentment was born of guilt. If Amy ever did manage to become... more herself again, Willow couldn’t imagine she would be too pleased with the ‘friend’ who had made her a mother of rodents.

She couldn’t imagine Oz would be too pleased with her new offspring either.

 ****

“What about Ira for a boy?” Buffy asked. She was lying naked in Giles’ arms, nestled against his body like a slightly smaller spoon. She felt him tense just a tiny bit.

“We hardly knew the man,” he pointed out, “Well and he did end badly, even if through no fault of his own.”

“Wow,” Buffy teased, “superstitious much? Anyway,” she added more seriously, “it wouldn’t be for him, it’d be for Willow, which is frankly kind of a weird name, especially for a boy, and I have a feeling it’s going to be a boy.”

Giles smiled, running a loving hand through her hair. “Now who’s being superstitious?”

“’Cause my intuitive feelings never have any basis in reality,” said Buffy with gentle sarcasm.

“Point taken,” Giles admitted pensively. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the reason why the thought of having a son seemed... heavier, more ominous somehow, than having a daughter, but it did.

“Well what about you,” Buffy asked. “All these years, you never had any thoughts at all about names for children?”

Giles became slightly tense again. “Of course we had,” he admitted.

“Oh,” Buffy said, regretting her own boneheadedness. ‘We’, of course.

Giles laughed mirthlessly, “Peter and Helena,” he said his, voice dripping with irony, “then Gwendolyn and Andrew, in case there were to be more than one of either.”

Buffy sighed. “On second thought, maybe we shouldn’t name them after anybody.”

“Them?” said Giles a little worriedly, half sitting up.

“Not plural ‘them’,” Buffy clarified, amused by his reaction, “sloppy American gender neutral ‘them’. Believe me, if we all get through this Council Discipline thingy alive, I’m never doing anything like this again. In fact, when this is all over, one of us should probably get fixed.” Buffy felt a perceptible lessening of her husband’s full body embrace, decidedly more fork than spoon, but keeping his prongs to himself. “Should I not have called it that?” she half apologized.

“It does call to mind an... unpleasant set of imagery,” he admitted, “but I suppose the idea is nonetheless worthy of consideration. To be honest, I suppose I should have had it done years ago.” Buffy rolled over and looked at him, slightly wounded. “I only meant that it would have been prudent, given my stated objectives,” he hastened to clarify, “not that I really wished I had.”

“Sure that’s what you meant,” Buffy teased with mock skepticism that seemed to contain just a hint of the genuine article. She closed the very small distance between them and kissed him on the lips.

“Cross my heart and hope to die!” he assured her with equally serious levity.

“I bet you could find a couple of volunteers on the Council to help you with that,” Buffy laughed.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Giles agreed, still smiling.

“Don’t worry,” Buffy assured him in her best imitation of cheerful sincerity, “If they give us too much trouble, I can always just kill them all.”

 ****

“That’s right, my dear,” Peter explained cheerfully. “It’s all ours. Three bedrooms, two baths and just enough grass to get a mower through. Our very own piece of North America. I’ve been shopping for furniture all day. It’ll be ready for you to move in tomorrow night, though I’m sure you’ll want to immediately start redecorating.”

“Well... the children and I will be happy to see you,” Elaine answered. She tried to say it cheerfully, but Peter could tell she was deeply troubled.

“It feels like two _years_ since I left,” he agreed, choosing to take her words at face value.

“It’s just...” Elaine tried again, a little bolder but still fairly indirect. “I wonder if we’re making a mistake... buying a home there... so soon.”

“Actually,” Peter assured her, “I have a slightly better feeling about this assignment than when I left. I’ve been building good report with the... subject. I think we’ll be here at least a year. Well, ten months anyway,” he added, a little regret creeping into his voice. “Regardless,” he added with deliberate cheer, “you can’t lose money buying real estate in California. Everyone knows that.”

Elaine covered a sigh with a yawn. She knew he knew that wasn’t what she’d meant. Peter obviously had no intention of revisiting his decision to move his wife and children to the heart of a supernatural combat zone. “Excuse me,” she said in a tone that spoke more of disappointment than apology. “It’s after one a.m. here. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow, and I’m suddenly very tired.”

Peter exchanged pleasant goodbyes with his wife and hung up. Suppressing a sigh of regret at the fundamental state of disagreement that he knew to exist between them, he headed down to the basement of his new house. He’d noted the presence of some old venetian blinds in a closet down there. They’d do as something to put up for privacy until Elaine got a chance to put up the curtains of her choice. Peter was suddenly anxious to have the windows covered. Since he’d returned from the closing, he had the odd feeling that the house was being watched.

In fact, as he descended the narrow, creaking wooden steps, he felt a very un-Watcherly sort of superstitious unease, like the sense of foreboding that one feels seeing a film character descend just such a set of stairs when it has already been established that _something_ waits below. He tried to laugh the feeling off, but as he reached for the handle of the closet door it was with very much the same trepidation that affects a child peeping under his bed-skirts, just to make sure he’s alone in his room after all. As a matter of fact, he was almost tempted to go back upstairs and fetch his sword. Embarrassed by this flight of fancy, he pulled open the door and pushed a tangle of wood and canvas aside, expecting to find venetian blinds.

 ****

_30,June 1925_

_Myrna delivered today, a daughter naturally, our fifth. We’re calling her Kay, after my mother, whom I fear will not be with us much longer. From the reception I got when I came in to see her, I fear I might as well give up the notion that Myrna is ever going to bear me a son. Actually, she told me as much and more particularly that I am not to touch her and that I am welcome to sleep elsewhere than in her bed. I didn’t argue with her about it. I can hardly stomach the idea of yet more hostile, coldblooded sex strictly for breeding purposes._

_As for Helena, I hardly know whether to wish her a daughter (which she wants) or a son, which is what she needs to keep her line going, whatever she thinks. I think it would be extremely strange to have a son and still to lack an heir. I’m sure it would increase Myrna’s resentment as well. Of course, my father has two brothers, so we are in nothing like the position that Helena is in, but it will still be something of a disappointment to my father if Uncle Charles or Cousin Leonard is seated in my place._

Quentin sipped his coffee under his green desk lamp trying to envision any safe course of action other than his current policy of capitulation. Rupert was having a little too much fun with these missives. The sport was wearing thin. This latest fingertip he’d cut from the hostage manuscript was unmistakably nasty in its implications, the more so because the bastard knew damn well that what he was threatening to imply was not the truth. For a moment Quentin contemplated having his son retrieve the offending document. But quite apart from his reluctance for Peter to learn the information it contained, it was too late for that. The thing had been digitized. The worst parts of it had been transmitted. It would be next to impossible to destroy it with any degree of certainty, therefore, impossible to act on the basis of believing it had been destroyed. He would simply have to coexist with it. Which meant doing Rupert’s bidding. In cooperation with Andrew. His brother.

It would almost have been worth not being Peter Travers’ son not to be Andrew Giles’ brother. He could just imagine the look of grim amusement Andrew must be wearing as he read these lines. He wouldn’t believe it, of course, but he’d enjoy the thought of his lifelong adversary having to contemplate the _possibility_ of being exposed as the bastard son of a whore, like himself.

Quentin had another, more concrete, problem in carrying out this appeasement than his visceral distaste for being made Rupert’s puppet. When he advised those loyal to him to vote against Rupert’s Striking, the other six Equals would not believe for a moment that he had had a change of heart. Not even after the very public show he intended to have his son make of exhorting him to change it. They would know he had been compromised. It would lead to closer scrutiny of all of his actions, to investigation into those who reported to him and the business he was sending them about. Including his efforts to locate the missing ‘Potential’ Faith Madden. And the theory he was exploring regarding the reason for the explosion of the Potential population in this unique generation. Not to mention the small matter of Mrs. Gwendolyn Post.

For a fleeting moment he thought of using the journal himself, to enlist his sister’s help. But the House in which she had influence could not be turned to Rupert’s service by any amount of force as long as its leader lived. Besides, it would have been too cruel, even in light of the way she had treated him the past twenty-three years. Even considering what very little right she of all people had ever had to judge him.

If he had one small comfort, it was that Rupert could never hope to succeed in using this information to protect his young bride from Cruciamentum. One way or another, however they felt the need to approach or disguise it, his colleagues would remove him as Examiner. Whomever they appointed next, it would be Peter, not Rupert who would be entitled to know. With any luck, Rupert would not be able to sabotage the Test without being publicly exposed for having done so. After the trouble he was going to now to prevent it, Quentin couldn’t see him exposing himself a second time to the risk of being Stricken. The girl would be tested. Silly thing that she was, if there were any justice in the universe, she would fail.

 ****

“Harm!” Spike grunted, struggling to hold the damned human off one handed with a mop while he used his other hand to hold together the deep gash the bastard his cut in his guts with his own buggering sword, holding in intestines that threatened to spill out and entangle him. “Help me you worthless cunt!”

“I can’t,” she whined, pushing and kicking futilely against the invisible barrier between the tunnel and the closet. Because of course, it made perfect bloody sense for her to decide that if he could piss into the tunnel then she could go out into the tunnel to take a piss.

Spike growled in frustration. Why did God have to make females so fucking stupid? To make them easier prey, obviously, but in this cased He’d overdone the job. “Go... get me a gun!” he instructed her, exasperated. Bugger the plan to turn this son of a bitch. Spike’s top priority now was to keep body and fiend together. Hopefully, without giving up the opportunity to stay in this house and devise some kind of a trap for Buffy.

“From where?” Harmony asked skeptically.

“There’s a pawn shop on Oak Street,” Spike suggested shortly, “next to the gas station. Hurry.”

“You mean walk?” the girl whined. “On foot? By myself?”

“It’s two sodding miles, you spoiled infant! Run!” Harmony left in much more of a huff than a hurry.

“That ought to take her an hour or three,” Peter panted, grinning in spite of the fact that he was literally backed into a tight corner, wearing himself out, swinging his sword like a Saxon to barely keep a tireless monster from braining him one-handed with a mop.

Spike grinned a little himself. ‘ _Hope springs eternal in the human breast..._ ’ “Don’t worry, Mate,” he assured the young Watcher, “you’re not going anywhere.”

 ****

The first time she saw Amy pushing and pulling a tiny rat from her furry rat body, tugging at it with her claws and teeth in its sick-looking green gray membrane, Willow thought she might actually pass out. But she didn’t. She remained unpleasantly conscious while the whole process of birth repeated itself again and again. The worst part was feeling that she ought to _do_ something and knowing there was nothing she could do. Instead she stood in front of Amy’s cage fidgeting in place, wringing her hands, making high pitched, anguished noises that rivaled Amy’s own animal shrieks of agony.

Each time Amy ripped and bit open a tiny mucousy sac and licked clean the squirming rodent within, the knots in Willows stomach tied themselves in more knots. This cleaning process looked so violent that the first two or three times she was forced to watch it Willow wondered bleakly what she could be expected to do if Amy decided to start eating them. Fortunately, it never came to that. An hour in, there were seven little rats trying desperately to suckle at the teats of their restless, miserable mother who was still putting forth her progeny at the rate of one every eight to ten minutes.

When the phone rang, Willow jumped and squealed like someone who’d been caught by a stern parent doing something very wrong. It was Connie Osborne calling, which only increased Willow’s guilt and distress. Oz’s pneumonia was responding to treatment. He could be home—to his new home in Fondren—as soon as Monday. He was resting now, but he’d be very pleased if she could visit him in the hospital on Sunday afternoon. Willow agreed turning guiltily away from Amy, who was squealing more pitifully than ever. “It’ll make his day to see you,” Connie tried to reassure her, clearly sensing some reservation in Willow and not knowing what could be the cause of it. “I’m sorry we were so... that things started out so... complicated,” Connie fumbled guiltily.

Willow felt a sudden stab of anger. ‘You mean the part where your husband helped massacre my family?’ she wanted to ask, ‘or the part where you both treated me like trash until you figured out you needed me to keep your son alive.’ “Let’s not worry about that right now,” she said instead, knowing that her own guilt was making her less forgiving than she might otherwise have been.

By the time she managed to get off the phone, Willow was the father of ten tiny, squeaking, ugly, blind, hairless rats. There seemed to be more coming. It _might_ not be the worst thing that any girl in history of the universe had ever had to deal with as a result of forbidden sex. But if it wasn’t, Willow sure as heck couldn’t say what was.

 ****

“Shoplifters?” Buffy asked skeptically.

“Demon shoplifters,” Xander reminded her as they helped themselves to an illicit slushy and stood drinking them in the spot directly in front of the machine, which wasn’t on camera. “Mostly vampires. A couple of scaly guys with big tufty ears. One actually told me if I called the cops he’d eat them and me both, and then he took a six pack and a whole carton of cigarettes. Camels! The worst part is, I told the manager and even showed him the tape and he says it’s gonna come out of my paycheck!”

“Is that even legal?” Buffy asked doubtfully.

Xander shrugged. “It took me three weeks to find this job Buffy. And I already enrolled in the a.m. classes at Adult Ed because of it, and that starts Monday. I don’t want to have to start all over and rearrange everything again. Especially with Willow... going away next month. I don’t care what she says, I’m not about to buy groceries with Sheila’s credit card. Anyway, I have a plan for making it up. I’m going to steal just enough slushies that they’re never really sure if I’m doing it or not. I figure one or two a week for the next six months, I’ll be able to drink enough to pay for everything they took from me last night. Meanwhile, you, my very powerful friend, are going to make sure it never happens again.”

“And you want me to stay ‘til midnight?” Buffy asked, pulling her phone out and checked the time, “That’s almost two and a half hours. I mean, at least in theory, I’m _supposed_ to be patrolling the whole town...”

“Oh come on Buffs,” Xander pleaded, “you’re not going to kill anymore vamps anyplace else tonight than you will right here. And after tonight, I won’t even have to say your name. They’ll know not to mess with this place. Besides, we haven’t hung out in like a month and a half. Which the Bronze is still there by the way, in case you were wondering.”

“Do you want me to bring my husband with me or leave him at home?” she asked rhetorically. “Alright, alright, I’m here now. Let’s hang out.”

“Very cool,” Xander grinned. They stood for a few minutes leaning on the slushy machine, slurping in silence. “So what’s with the new look?” he asked finally, groping for a topic. “Sloppy sheik?”

Buffy looked down at her T-shirt and sweat pants, “Actually, it’s the ‘clothes I can actually put on ’cause I don’t have to zip or button anything’ look,” she explained, “But no worries. I’m going to the mall with Willow and hopefully Cordy tomorrow for a major fashion over-hall.”

Xander was quiet, suddenly glum. Buffy didn’t have to ask why. “Does she ever say anything about me?” he asked after a while.

“Just the same as before,” Buffy told him, looking down at her feet. “She loves you. She doesn’t want you to get hurt. She doesn’t want you to get in trouble.”

“She wants me to stay away from her,” Xander summarized bitterly, throwing his empty slushy cup in the trash with excessive force.

“She doesn’t _want_ you to...” Buffy tried to explain, looking up towards and past his face.

“What would you do?” Xander demanded bitterly. “What if they—the government the Council, whoever—what if they _ordered_ you not to see Giles anymore?”

“That’s... different,” Buffy mumbled, suddenly very interested in her slushy cup, not sure why she didn’t want him to know they were fighting to stop exactly that. Maybe because of the _way_ they were fighting, which certainly didn’t make her feel proud and heroic.

“Why is it different? How is it different?” Xander wanted to know.

“Giles is my husband,” Buffy pointed out, still not looking at him, feeling like she’d been punched in the gut.

“Well Cordelia is my girlfriend,” Xander countered.

“No,” Buffy said quietly, looking him in the eye at last, “she’s not.”

“Well, it’s a good look for you anyway,” he said after a few seconds, grinning wickedly, as if his troubles were suddenly forgotten, “perfect for sweatin’ to the oldies.”

“Ha, ha,” said Buffy, rolling her eyes, but she was more amused than annoyed and more relieved than either by the lighter turn the conversation seemed to be taking. “The music is actually not that bad,” she told him, “although I could do without the lectures on its vital cultural significance. Anyway it cuts down on the number of _hours_ a day I have to spend listening to NPR.”

But the joking mood didn’t last long. “So how is married life, really?” Xander asked, sounding suddenly a little too serious. Buffy could have made another joke. She probably should have. But she was so tired.

“I don’t know,” she said pensively. “I mean, it’s sort of as advertised, you know, ‘say good night and stay together’, which _is_ nice actually...”

“But...” he prompted, noting her tone of not exactly bliss.

Buffy Shrugged. “I don’t know,” she repeated. “It’s not that we’re not getting along—in fact I think we’re about to set a record for the number of days we’ve gone without arguing about anything actually—but everything is so tense right now... so... life and death and love and doom... and then I try to come home and relax but I can’t relax (even if he does stop fining me work to do for five minutes) because ‘our’ room feels like his room and not mine. And that goes for the whole apartment actually. It’s all so... ‘a place for everything and everything in its place’ except the place for most of my things just happens to be in a box in the garage, which I can’t even complain about because his stuff is always better and more grown up and nicer than mine.

“And that’s part of it too, the not complaining? Because, I sort of feel like... we’re not so much not not getting along as not _allowed_ to not get along? I mean, how do you say ‘honey, I love you, and I appreciate that whole giving-up-every-other-thing-that-ever-mattered-in-your-life-just-for-me thing you’re doing, but if you clean your glasses one more time while you’re _explaining_ to me the _right_ way to hang clothes in a closet or open a carton of milk, or squeeze the damned tooth paste, I might have to kill you.’?

“And then there’s the whole out-Watching-the-Watcher deal. I mean, I don’t actually need _two_ people to fill my life with grim, serious preparation for killing and dying every single hour of every day and every night. It’s exhausting! But of course I can’t say anything because he’s already got the Council on his case and his father and his father’s creepy half-brother plotting against us. And it’s like every time I feel like screaming at him, I feel like such a bitch, because what if they _do_ vote to send him away and we have to fight them or trick them or hide from them or whatever and we don’t get to live together for months or years and then oops somebody gets killed and we _never_ see each other again. And so I think, at that point I’m going to be feeling pretty stupid for wasting this time fighting with him! But then, that doesn’t make the lectures or the obsessive organizing or the having absolutely no space in the universe that’s actually just mine any easier to deal with!”

“Yeah well, I’d pay a million bucks to be fighting with Cordelia right about now,” Xander told her, “or biting my tongue and not fighting with her even.”

Buffy sighed, “See, this is what I’m talking about,” she half complained, half apologized. “I have all this stuff that I feel like I need to vent and then when I do, or even when I don’t, I have all this guilt. It’s like I’m the guy with the no shoes when the other guy doesn’t have any feet, but it’s just... I’m taking a lot of new steps lately on some pretty rocky roads and my freaking feet are killing me! I mean I _know_ how lucky Giles and I are to be together, unlike you and Cordelia, and Willow and Oz, and Willow and _Amy_ , and Sheila and Ira, and Mom and... nobody, and _Dad_ and nobody that matters, and even Peter and his wife for at least a few more days, but it’s still hard, you know?”

“Yeah, I actually do know,” Xander assured her, taking her empty cup and throwing it in the one trash can that could be reached without going on camera, “and I know what to do about it too,” he added, taking her by the hands and pulling her up from her leaning position against the slushy counter.

“Oh really?” Buffy asked, her tone mock suspicious, trying not to grin at whatever endearingly goofy thing she was sure he was about to say next, “and what is that?”

“You, my friend,” he said, leaning over the sales counter and switching on the radio, “need to dance.”

 ****

Andrew Giles sat in the tiny study of his London flat drinking expensive whiskey into the no longer quite so wee hours of a Sunday morning and shuffling through the events that the late and ever less lamented Peter Travers had recorded in his Journal for March and April, 1925. His business in town was finished, but he couldn’t stand to go back to Brighton, which he’d only gone to to get away from Bath. He couldn’t get away from those damned pages. He couldn’t stop being that which was produced by the stated events. Of course, Man being greater than the sum of his parts, such events don’t always produce the results one might intuitively expect.

But sometimes they do.

Andrew felt very much like a second generation damned soul with a third waiting anxiously to inherit and a fourth on the way. He supposed that was how Rupert wanted him to feel. He smiled ruefully, regretfully. Peter had actually accused Helena of a similar type of vindictive emotional manipulation. After he’d violated her by force and used the kinks that had bent into her soul to make her a party to her further degradation. He supposed, if he were to be entirely honest with himself, Rupert had equally good reasons to feel victimized, to blacken his soul in the quest for revenge. And rather better practical objectives to be obtained in the process.

Andrew still hadn’t seen the frank and detailed confession to the primary crime that Peter had evidently written in February of 1925, but he was now certain that Quentin had. Clearly Rupert was feeding each of them the facts he most wanted them to know. Judging from the types of details that were included in what he had seen, he supposed his son might actually be exercising mercy, both in not subjecting him to the account first hand and in withholding the worst details of Helena’s reciprocation from Quentin. Reading what he had had to read didn’t _feel_ merciful, but Andrew could think of no way that Rupert could have known that. It didn’t _sound_ much like him to Andrew to be merciful either, but there were several intelligent persons, whose opinions he generally respected, who steadfastly insisted that Rupert was a basically decent man.

Well, and to the extent he wasn’t, really, whose fault was that? What had he honestly expected to become of a motherless five-year-old boy who’d walked in on his father and his grandmother fishing up a murder? Especially once he’d been pressed into the service of those who had ordered it. Bloody Hell, why on Earth did he continue to assume that anyone involved in this cabal was capable of basic human decency? Wars are not won by being decent. They are won by being strong, by being hard and when necessary, cruel, cold, inhuman. These are not qualities that are easy to leave on the battlefield, especially when the battlefield comes home with you, when it surrounds you every day.

 ****

“I’m sorry,” Buffy said, mock politely, plunging her stake into the heart of an undead fiend whose pants sagged almost to his knees, “But we have a _very_ strict policy here at Quick Mart...” As he crumbled to ashes, sending a six pack and way too many gold chains clattering to the floor, the Slayer looked square into the eyes of his behoodied companion, who had already backed a substantial way towards the door. “...No Pulse, No Cash: No Mercy.”

For a moment, the pseudo-punk was too shocked to flee. It froze, waiting to be obliterated. Buffy was tempted, but entirely dead things tell no tales. “Thank you for shopping with us,” she prompted with a pointed look at the door, “tell your friends.” The vampire blinked a few times then, taking the hint at last, scampered gratefully into the night.

“Well if that doesn’t get you employee of the month,” Xander grinned, “nothing will.”

“You know I don’t actually work here, right?” Buffy reminded him. “Speaking of,” she added, “I should probably get going. I’ve already killed one demon and three vampires and left one survivor of each to spread the word. That should do the trick. I think I’ll do one quick sweep of the town and get to bed.”

“Stay,” Xander pleaded, giving her his best impish grin, “I get off in forty minutes.... or you know, sooner if you feel like it.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, but she was definitely more amused than annoyed, “I award no points for that maneuver,” she said, “when you go with such a low level of difficulty, execution has to be flawless. Look,” she added more seriously, knowing Xander’s nervous humor well enough to know what he was nervous about, “Cordelia will be back. I think she just needs time right now to... sort everything out. She’s just in a really difficult position with her father, which I’m guessing you know what that’s like. And I think she really is trying to protect you.”

“But see, that’s what bugs,” Xander complained, “I’m supposed to be the guy. I’m supposed to protect her.”

Buffy laughed. “That hasn’t usually been _my_ experience,” she pointed out, “but I’m not sure you can go by me.”

“Seriously,” he said, “stay. How bad are you going to feel if I get killed in the last half hour of my shift by some vamp who hasn’t got the memo yet?”

“Alright,” said Buffy, “I guess I might as well since I’ve stayed this long. Giles’ll probably be asleep by the time I get home anyway.”

“Well in that case,” Xander suggested, “why don’t we go get something to eat. I bet the drive-through's still open at Taco Bell.”

“Well... I am hungry,” Buffy admitted.

“I'll pay for dinner—no argument, I'm a workin' man now— _and_ I’ll even let you drive my car,” Xander offered jingling a set of keys.

“Deal!” Buffy declared grinning. “As long as _I_ get to pick the music on the radio. For once.”

 ****

BLAM!!! BLAM!!! BLAM!!! Three shots rang out in rapid succession before Spike could shout loudly enough to make Harmony understand that she should stop. “YOU CAN’T SHOOT AROUND A BLOODY CORNER YOU BRAINLESS TWIT!!!!”

“As opposed to your more intelligent sort of twit,” Peter quipped, bringing his sword back up to a shoulder guard position after several seconds of merciful rest afforded by the screen of flying bullets that Harmony had provided.

“Give me that!” Spike instructed crossly.

“Fine,” said Harmony sullenly, raising her arm as if throw the weapon at him.

“Drop it!” Spike instructed, horrified.

“What?” Harmony demanded, still holding the gun.

“I’m not going to go chasing that thing across the room and give this wanker a chance to cut my bleeding head off! Put it on the ground and kick it in here.”

She kicked. The gun slid. It slid very decidedly onto but not over the threshold. “What!?!” she demanded in response to Spike’s look of exasperation.

“You’re a bloody cheerleader for Christ’s sake!” Spike shouted. “You can kick harder than that!”

“It’s in there!”Harmony insisted. She tried unsuccessfully to kick the gun again, but her foot would not make contact. “See.”

Spike moved towards the tunnel, keeping one eye warily focused on Peter who had taken a tentative step away from the wall, looking for a desperately needed advantage in the situation. The gun (a sodding 22 caliber semi-automatic pistol that was damn near too _small_ for one handed operation) lay neatly in the center of the gap, the breached basement wall framing it on either side. There was no way in heaven Spike was sticking his hand in there. “Is this the only one you brought?” he demanded.

“What?” said Harmony, for what felt like the millionth time in the last hour. “You just said get a gun.” Spike growled and glared at her. Peter risked what was probably at least his third or fourth step forward. Spike whirled on him, mop at the ready. Wood and metal met with such force that the mop handle was broken in half to a sharp point.

Spike didn’t pull back. Far from it. He plunged forward, thrusting his makeshift stake at Peter’s chest. The belly rather than the heart was usual the best place to impale a human because there was so little protection there, but to strike that low, he would have had to stoop that low, leaving his own neck dangerously expose to the down swing of the Watcher’s blade.

The force of Spike's thrust was probably sufficient to kill, but the man twisted himself in just the right way at just the right moment so that the point of the skewer skidded along the curve of his upper ribcage tearing clothing, skin and flesh in a way that was disappointingly superficial if satisfyingly painful. At the same moment Spike’s left arm blocked Peter’s right wrist just below the hilt of his sword. Peter jumped backward, back into his corner, creating a sliver of space and time just wide enough to swing his sword into, forcing Spike back in return.

Spike stood catching his breath, stuffing a loop of intestines back into his gut with his free hand, keeping a guard up with his now much shorter but sharper weapon, and considered his position. There was no getting at the gun right now. He’d have had to kneel and turn his back on his enemy to reach it with his half-mop. Still, Spike had the initiative in the situation. Peter was too weak to attack him head on, especially now that he too was injured, bleeding. Besides being deliciously distracting, this was a good sign. Though Peter’s wounds were less grievous, they bothered him more, and unlike Spike’s, they would get worse, not better, as the night wore on.

 ****

Thirteen itsy-bitsy newborn rats squeaked and cried as they pushed and shoved to stay as close as possible to Amy’s furry body. It was a competitive sport, a zero sum game. There didn’t seem to be quite enough nipples to go around. One in particular, the runt of the litter, was faring especially poorly. No matter how he wriggled and strove, he kept getting pushed aside by his larger siblings. Willow wasn’t sure he’d gotten any milk at all.

Amy looked on, exhausted and indifferent. Willow felt deeply sorry for the poor little guy. He was so persistent and so outmatched. She’d felt that way a lot lately, maybe a little her whole life. And his troubles were all her fault. She would have to figure out something to do about it. She was just about to fire up her lap top when the doorbell rang. It was nearly midnight, but not nearly enough to expect Xander, who had a key anyway.

“Blesséd be,” beamed Ms. Waddle unwinding a long, black scarf from her wheat colored hair as she walked in and introduced herself, adding only half apologetically, “I’m sorry I’m so late. Our ancient and arcane rituals by the dark of the moon ran a little long last night, and I’ve been playing catch up all day.” It was almost as if she'd known that Willow had not had time to have one single thought about her absence at the appointed hour of ‘about dark thirty.’

The witch was not at all what Willow had expected. She was tall, about thirty-five, just on the border between fairly plain and slightly pretty and cheerful almost to the point of being bubbly. She did have on a long skirt in a rich, earthy golden-brown, but with the matching cardigan, her overall look was more ‘business casual’ than mystic. On the plus side, there was nothing about her that could remind anyone even the slightest bit of Katherine Madison.

“You must be Willow,” she tried again good-humoredly when her first spate of chatter produced no response.

“Oh, um, yeah. Of course,” Willow said shaking the hand she extended. An old-fashioned, feminine half-handshake of the kind her mother had always encouraged her to despise and which therefore made her feel nervous and guilty whether she resented them or not, which she guiltily resented. “Have a seat,” she said desperate to make a point of being polite. “Please. Can I... get you anything?”

“You seem nervous,” Ms. Waddle observed, taking her seat on the couch with a sympathetic smile. “Is that because you’ve never met a real witch before?”

“No,” Willow told her even more nervously, gripped by a confusing mixture of defensiveness and fear-of-being-judged-guilty-of-unfairly-feeling-defensiveness, “it’s because I have.”

Ms. Waddle laughed lightly, miraculously unoffended. “Maybe you only think you have,” she said, eyes twinkling good-naturedly. “Or perhaps, I should say, it depends on your definition.”

 ****

“That’s it,” Gwendolyn whispered, her words as smooth as her touch on her lovers skin. Her lover? Her victim? Her pupil? Her patient? She was ministering to him very much as if he were an invalid, and he was submitting quite as helplessly. “Don’t speak,” she murmured like hot satin against his throat. “Don’t make a sound. I know what you need. What you want. What you deserve.” The trail of kisses that had been leading her steadily down his chest and his abdomen came to its inevitable destination. She took him whole into her mouth.

Richard moaned with unbearable pleasure and something akin to horrified disbelief. He closed his eyes despite the dimness of the room to keep out the evidence of the reality of what was happening. He didn’t want to see the familiar shadows of his own ceiling, the little swaying darknesses that told him the speed and direction of the breezes that stirred the trees standing between his window and the street light that was set in the twenty-two inch strip of grass between the sidewalk and the two lane asphalt street that was a part of the exceptionally regular grid that connected every lot and building in Sunnydale to one another, and by way of certain state and federal highways, to the rest of his well ordered universe. He wanted to deny, to dissociate, to pretend, as he had done every night for two weeks, that this unaccountable experience was happening to another man in another time and place.

Because Richard C. Snyder having oral sex with a fugitive criminal alien (who was still—at least until the school board could meet and do something about it—a member of his faculty) had no place in a well ordered universe. As talented a denier as he was, Snyder knew that when he opened his eyes, it would be to the sight of soul sickening chaos.

 ****

“Look, goddamn you!” Detective Mallet shouted in frustration, slamming his fist on the doctor’s desk.

Douglas Ericson glanced impassively at the photograph. The thing or substance it depicted in vivid red and pink and brown was not recognizable as a human being, let alone Lennette (Ericson Madden Orsha Kirkland Hollander ) [Your Name Here] née Lehane. He looked up at the Detective. “Am I free to leave?” he asked, “or to ask you to leave, since this is my office?”

“If she don’t mean no more to you than that,” the cop snarled with calculated contempt.

Douglas wasn’t falling for it. This was all a carefully planned psychological attack. Coming down here in the middle of the night, catching the good doctor in the middle of his latest dance with death, was part of it. “Please leave,” he said coldly. “And the next time you feel like a chat, call my lawyer. Take this damned thing with you,” he added, holding out the bloody photograph to the departing detective. “Keep it,” Mallet called over his shoulder, “there’s plenty where that came from, and bound to be even more soon enough.”

Douglas wadded the thing up and threw it in the wastebasket under his desk. He wished he could rip the last twelve or sixteen years or maybe more out of the book of his life and do the same thing. No wonder parents hated their fucking kids. Every goddamned thing they did was your fault even though there was fuckall you could do about it. Because what kind of a sorry son-of-a-bitch was going to turn in his own kid for Capital Murder? On the other hand, what kind of fucking idiot was going to risk throwing away a sweet life like the one Dr. Ericson had set up here in sunny AZ just to stick his own head in the damned guillotine by stonewalling the police to protect and active goddamned serial killer? Then again, what kind of a sorry son-of-a-bitch was going to let his sixteen-year-old daughter roll around lose in the world homeless and friendless and out of places to turn then stab her in the back after he'd said he'd help her just to save his own ass. And what kind of a fucked up stupid damned son-of-an-idiot-bitch felt obligated to honor a promise he’d made to a mass murderer to get her to let him go and spare his life? Fuck.

Douglas looked at his watch. Speaking of kids, he had a fourteen-year-old patient about to come to in post-op. He guessed he’d better go see what was left of her after the grapefruit sized chunk of living death had been cut out of her brain. Then he had to go and talk to her parents.

 ****

Giles yawned and rubbed his eyes under his glasses. He squinted at the increasingly meaningless text in front of him trying to stay awake. He guessed it was silly to wait up for Buffy. She was the Slayer for goodness sake. She was by definition better capable of looking out for herself than anyone could ever be of looking out for her. In fact, she’d been patrolling the streets of Sunnydale for a solid year before he’d often been in a position to know before eight a.m. whether she’d survived her rounds or not. But that didn’t stop him from worrying about her, from wanting to know she was safe, at least for the night.

It must be good hunting tonight. That was all. That would explain why she’d been gone on her ‘quick evening sweep’ for more than five hours. Even though it would mean sleeping late into the Sunday morning they’d planned to share before her afternoon shopping excursion, effectively canceling the last day of their only intermittently relaxing and so far not particularly romantic weekend. Yes, good hunting it must be, but for whom? He was sorely tempted to call her cell phone, but he remembered how distracting that could be at a critical moment.

Suddenly, he was jangled into a more fully alert state by the sound of his own telephone ringing. For an instant he was sure it must be Buffy in some need of assistance, but considering the hour he realized it was just as likely London calling. In fact, it was his father. “I’m going to buy you a world map,” Giles yawned, “with the time-zones demarcated and labeled in bright red ink. To what do I owe this... untimely pleasure?”

“Our deep familial love and affection,” said Andrew dryly. “Congratulations on your... _marriage_.”

“I’ve been married for nearly three weeks,” Giles pointed out. “What do you want?”

“To host a reception in your honor at which I can publicly signal my approval of your very wise choice of a bride,” his father replied bitterly. “Probably several days before the beginning of the Quarterly Meeting I should think,” he went on contemplatively. “That should at least give us a chance to see where we stand, assuming certain people are willing to signal their support or at least their openness to persuasion by attending. I suppose... Friday the 17th of April, though that’s damnably short notice for a formal occasion.”

“Do you think that’s really the approach we ought to be taking?” Giles asked seriously. “I’d hate for people to feel that we expect them to publicly approve and celebrate our union just in order to vote against a Strike.”

“It utterly amazes me,” Andrew berated his son, “that someone who’s supposed to be a scholar of history could understand so little about politics. When the opposition has staked out one extreme of the spectrum of possible policy choices, you can’t simply propose what you think the middle ground should be. You’ve got to nail down the other extreme and let the timorous mass of moderate idiots find the ‘middle’ you’ve thereby created for them. More particularly, if I am going to ask Watchers of the Outer Council to vote against the direction of their Seatholders, my _public_ position at least, can’t be that I’d like your sins to be overlooked as a personal favor to me. I must be seen to say ‘This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.’”

“Now that’s a spectacle I expect certain people would pay good money to see,” Rupert replied with grim amusement and some satisfaction.

“Don’t gloat,” Andrew warned him. “You haven’t won anything yet. It may be beyond even my powers to salvage this situation regardless of my very strong motivation to do so.”

“I’m acutely aware of that, actually,” Giles pointed out acerbically, “especially given the lengths to which you and your... ‘colleague’ Mr. Travers have gone in order to render this ‘situation’ so unsalvageable.”

“At any rate, I suggest you make arrangements to arrive in London no later than the 15th,” Andrew informed him crisply. “I want you both rested and acclimated and ready to exhibit the most charm and courtesy of which you are capable.”

“We’ll do the best in our poor powers,” Giles snarked. “Ill reared though some of us may have been.”

“Quentin will not be attending of course,” Andrew explained, trying to remain businesslike. “He will send his son in his stead with his impeccably tepid regards.”

Rupert smiled appreciatively, “As a guide to those who can’t find our ‘middle ground’ without a flagman and a full set of runway lights.”

“By George, I think he’s got it,” Andrew replied witheringly.

Rupert smiled. If he was such an idiot, then why was his father the one being helplessly maneuvered into conspiring against everything he’d work toward the last four years? “Let’s get down to brass tacks,” he said. “I assume we’ve got the Ezarians, the Hippolytons and the ‘Jacobeans’, and with you onboard none of them likely to break ranks—”

“Humph,” Andrew sniffed. “God! You can’t tell your friends from your enemies no matter which way the wind blows, can you, Rupert?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Giles, almost as much puzzled as offended.

“Your three votes on the Inner Council were Davidson, Robson, and _Crowne_ ” Andrew informed him.

“Good Lord!” Giles gasped. “What have they got, 30 votes between them?”

“Less,” Andrew explained grimly, “The Sterlings are breaking with the Crownes to try to get the Weregelder Seat for themselves, that’s why Julian backed out of your... arrangement.”

“Damnation!” Giles swore. “You needn’t have dug my grave so deep.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Andrew admitted, “If I’d known I’d be in it with you.”

“Why do you hate me so very much?” Rupert asked quietly, sounding a good deal more confused than angry. Which of them was supposed to be the son-of-a-bitch again? Andrew suppressed a bitter laugh. Knowing both their mothers as he did, he supposed the answer should have been fairly obvious. Well so, he was a son-of-a-bitch. The boy was still no saint and for that matter no ‘boy’. They were both men with more life behind than ahead of them now, individuals each with his own affairs and interests to see to. Whatever he had done and failed to do as a parent was an immovable and, truth be said, insignificant grain of sand in the bottom half of the hourglass of human history. This was no time to get... sentimental about the past.

“Quentin and I have determined that our current support is between 42 and 51 votes.” Andrew stated briskly. “We are working on confirming those we are unsure of, but our primary focus obviously has to be on turning Virgil. There are 21 Gaudencio votes, and he has excellent control within his own house. We’ll make approaches to both Julian and the Ms. Sterling of course, but they can’t guarantee nearly as much even if they are persuaded to rejoin us at this late date, especially since they and their followers are so at odds with one another. Of course, our biggest problem with all of them is that they feel very ill used by our trying to pull them back the opposite way we’ve just been pushing them, for which I must have all of the blame else Quentin’s house start to fragment as well. And of course Julian and Laura both know they’ve been dangled the same carrot and neither likely to get it.”

Giles sighed. He knew there was more to be gained by discussing that which his father had answered than that which he had asked. “I assume you’ve tried to point out to Virgil the position in which he’ll be putting Buffy vis à vie the Council if he doesn’t change his vote?”

“I have,” Andrew replied tersely. He was not in the slightest tempted to explain the reasons why he was in a uniquely terrible position to make precisely those arguments, particularly to Virgil Gaudencio. “Truth-be-told he required quite a lot of manipulation from Quentin to vote as he did in the first place. He knows now that he’s been had, but he hasn’t made up his mind what to do about it because he’s too angry. It may take a personal appeal to turn him around.”

“Do you really think he’d listen to me?” Giles asked.

“No,” said Andrew flatly. “He’ll have to hear it from her.”

 ****

After Ms. Waddle left, Willow sat for a long while in Ira’s recliner holding a shoebox full of half a dozen naked little rodents snuggled among the folds of a dryer-warmed dishtowel. She checked the clock again: 12:58. She was anxious for Xander to get home so that she could know he we safe, but she was not anxious for him to meet her new family. Amy lay in her cage on the coffee table enduring the demands of the seven smallest rats, including the very smallest, who was having trouble competing even in this limited field. Nursing in shifts was just one of the many helpful suggestions about rat care she’d gotten from Ms. Waddle. Unfortunately, the friendly professional practitioner of the dark arts had no suggestions on how to turn rats back into people when you weren’t the one who had changed them, let alone what if anything could be done about the ambiguous personhood of second generation rats.

The look on her face when she’d finally understood exactly where all those little rats had come from! Sort of... cheerfully horrified, her frozen smile threatening to crack. But, that was nothing compared to her rattled state after seeing Sheila in her unnaturally stable condition. And on that score she had also been remarkably short on suggestions. Apparently, Willow and Amy had been walking very much on the wild side, even by witch standards.

“Learning more about magic and how to use it might help,” she had suggested doubtfully, “and I do feel like that’s something our ladies could help you with. But this... To break another witch’s spell, you have to... overpower her, one way or another. I’m not even sure we _could_ do that in your case. And I’m fairly sure you don’t want us to. As far as removing the spell yourself... I don’t think the magic is the root of the problem.” Which, of course, was something Willow had already known.

What she still didn’t know, to her increasing distress at 1:17 a.m. (besides how to love a mother who could never love her back) was the whereabouts of Alexander Harris. She tried calling Buffy, since he’d said he might be needing her help tonight, but her phone went straight to voicemail. She tried texting, but there was no immediate response. The line was busy at Giles’ house. It was still busy five minutes later. Ten minutes later. Fifteen. At 1:45 Willow decided that maybe she would try doing a locator spell ever again after all. Except that at that moment, her phone rang.

 ****

Giles hadn’t been off the phone a minute when it rang again. “For the love of Mike,” he all but shouted, “It’s two in the morning over here!”

“Well what time do you think it is down here?” asked a very decidedly American voice, somewhere between amused and disgruntled.

“I beg your pardon,” Giles apologized automatically. “Who am I speaking with?” he asked with a sudden sense of urgency, “what’s wrong?”

“This is Sergeant Reynolds,” the man explained, “Sunnydale P.D.”

Giles sat up a little straighter. He'd met the man a couple of times, and never under friendly circumstances. “What’s this about?” he asked, more sharply than he’d meant too.

“We just picked up a couple of juveniles parking in a stolen car,” the officer informed him with grim satisfaction. “One of them claims to be your wife.”


	12. Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Buffy and Xander find themselves once again being hauled into Juvenile Court, the judge isn't the only one laying down the law. Oz isn't the only one who wants to claim Willow as his own. More than one piece of unsettling news has Watchers on both sides of the Atlantic questioning the loyalties of those they depend on. Faith and Doug are beginning to understand... what exactly? And Spike might have to rethink his views on love and vampires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Final Exciting Chapter of Part II: The Lesser Light

“I’m telling you,” Buffy insisted in a fierce whisper, “something’s wrong. It’s not normal for someone who _only_ has a cell phone to leave it turned off for two days.”

“He’s probably just busy,” Giles whispered back crossly, “after all, as I understand it, _his_ wife came home last night.” There was entirely too much “T” sound at the end of that sentence.

“Oh my God! Would you let it go already!?!” Buffy demanded, her volume rising dangerously close to a conversational level.

The sound of Judge Fondren’s gavel saved Giles from saying something he’d almost certainly regret. “Let’s keep it down folks,” the Judge admonished, “this is a court of law.” The clerk called another case. Hal Gaston’s party sat in a carefully ordered row of steaming silence: Giles then Buffy then Hal then Xander then Jessica then Tony then Hank then ‘Sheila’ then Joyce. “Are there any more that we think we have a resolution on today?” the Judge asked at length. Kathy assured him that there were. She had Xander’s case called first.

“Judge,” Hal began conversationally, when the three Harrises had come forward and been acknowledged on the record, “I talked to Kathy about this this morning and in light of the alleged victim’s statement that the use of the vehicle was not unauthorized and that it was her oversight that the car was still tagged in her late husband’s name alone, we’ve agreed that my client will plead guilty to the curfew ordinance violation and one misdemeanor theft by receiving on the gold chains. The rest of the charges will be dismissed.”

“Is there a sentencing recommendation?” Fondren asked, addressing Kathy.

“A five hundred dollar fine and a hundred-fifty in court costs, Your Honor,” Kathy informed him.

The judged looked skeptically from her to Xander whom he certainly had not forgotten. It didn’t help that Garrett Chase was sitting quietly in the back of the courtroom. “This will make the second auto theft charge you’ve had dropped this month, won’t it son?” he asked, sounding not the least bit fatherly. “Involving a different young lady you were parking with in each case?”

“Whoa, hey, no!” Xander clarified defensively, “Me and Buffy, we were not parking, just... parked.” Hank exhaled audibly. Giles silently comforted himself that it was not possible to literally die of humiliation.

Judge Fondren just glared and started into his plea acceptance catechism. “In light of all the circumstances...” he said disdainfully when the last question had been answered, “I’m going to accept your plea and I’m going to sentence you to six months probation subject to the standard conditions of this court, 60 hours community service and fines and costs as stated. And no contact with your codefendant during the term of your probation.”

“Jeez, you gotta be kidding me!” Xander objected. “That’s not the deal!”

“You just said you understood, I’m not bound by these recommendations on sentencing,” the judge pointed out. Xander wanted to say more but Hal’s warning look was so severe that he didn’t dare. He didn’t have to.

“That’s bullshit!” Tony declared loudly. Despite the banging gavel and the approaching bailiff, he turned and addressed himself directly to the poker-faced Mr. Chase, “That’s bullshit, and you know it you son-of-a-bitch!”

“Mr. Harris!” the judge reproached him severely, “the Court has ruled. Hold your tongue or leave the courtroom before I find you in contempt! Now, Mr. Harris—young Mr. Harris—” Judge Fondren continued, “immediately when you leave here I’m ordering you to go downstairs to Juvenile Services and get set up on probation. I’m ordering you and your husband to go with him,” he told Jessica. “You’ll both be responsible for enforcing the terms of his probation (including the seven p.m. curfew) and reporting violations to the Court—”

“But he doesn’t even live with us—” Mr. Harris started to object.

“Wait, what about my job?” Xander demanded, “I work from three to midnight, four days a week.”

“All of that is between you and your probation officer,” said the judge dismissively. “You’re excused. What do we have next Kathy?”

“Your Honor,” Willow tried to interject, “if I may speak, Xander has been living with me—I mean... with my daughter and I—”

“I’m well aware of that... _situation_ , Dr. Rosenberg,” said the judge disgustedly. “However you are not his legal guardian. This _boy’s_ parents are going to be held responsible to this Court for his behavior, and as such his living arrangements are going to be between them and the juvenile probation office. Kathy?”

The prosecutor made a pained face as Hal whispered a few words to the Harrises and sent them, fuming, on their way. “Well...” she ventured trying not to sound like she was criticizing the judge, “we _did_ have a proposed resolution on the co-defendant, Ms. Summers...”

“Summer-Giles,” Buffy corrected her, coming up to stand next to Hal. Giles checked the impulse to stand up himself. Hal had to waive Hank and Joyce back. Because ‘emancipated’ means exactly that. Buffy was on her own with the Court except for hired counsel.

“Ah, yes,” murmured the judge with a disdainful look at Giles, “The Librarian.” The man in question stared back at him coolly, as if he were not the least bit angry or embarrassed to be so referred to. The judge had the clerk call the case number.

“What we _had_ worked out,” Hal explained, was that my client would plead guilty to the driving without a license and the curfew ordinance violation and pay total fines and costs of $650.00, and that the State would dismiss all of the theft charges. But, Your Honor, I don’t know that I can advise her to do that at this point, because each of those carries a maximum of up to 30 days, and the theft charges, frankly, aren’t supported by any substantial evidence. My inclination at his point, frankly, is to set it for a hearing.”

“What says the State?” Judge Fondren asked evenly, ignoring Hal’s fairly straightforward assessment that he was no longer to be trusted and Kathy’s subtler insinuation to the same effect.

“Your Honor,” Kathy said, “in light of Dr. Rosenberg’s expected testimony, the State would move to dismiss the auto theft charge, however if there is not a plea today, we would have to go forward on the four theft by receiving charges with regard to the gold chains, which those are just the ones that were actually reported stolen. Each of those carries up to a year, incidentally,” she reminded Hal, who was whispering intensely with Buffy.

“Well they’re going to revoke my bond when I have to go to London, anyway!” Buffy could be heard to say in an exasperated undertone. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Hal shrugged. “She’ll take the plea.” He told the court.

Her row of supporters exchanged nervous looks, but this time Fondren followed the recommendation. “Thank God,” Giles murmured. He hadn’t loved the idea of trying to travel internationally with a juvenile probationer, especially the way things stood with the Council.

“I think we’ve heard just about enough commentary from... ‘loved ones’ in this case,” the judge opined harshly. “No wonder these children don’t know how to behave,” he added, almost as if he were talking to himself, eying the whole row with contempt. “Look what they have for examples.”

****

Douglas didn’t look up when he heard his office door open. He took another long drag on his cigarette while he studied the images of Mrs. 344(B)’s tumors. Whoever it was sat down across from him just like he’d been invited. “That’s funny,” the cop said, “I’ve never heard of an Oncologist who smoked.”

“It’d be funnier if I was a cardiologist,” Douglas told him, his tone entirely flat, still not looking up. “Or a pulmonologist. Odds are I’ll die of heart disease or emphysema long before I get cancer. From this anyway. I told your flunky to talk to my lawyer,” he added looking up at last, “not to send his boss down here to have another run at me.”

The Lieutenant or whatever he was just shrugged. “So whatever you say can’t and won’t be used against you,” he said. “I’ll risk it. What am I gonna get on you anyway? Hindering? Obstruction?”

Douglas pushed the intercom button on his phone. “Jenna, get me security,” he said.

The cop laughed. “I’m the Deputy Chief of the Arizona State Police,” he said coolly. “Save your breath.”

“This is hospital security, is there a problem Dr. Ericson?”

“Fuck it,” Douglas said with every appearance of indifference.

“We’re sending an officer,” said the disembodied voice of concern.

“I’m not being held hostage,” Douglas said crossly. “Just... never mind.”

The cop piped up and talked the security guard down. “We’re just having another chat with the doctor about his little adventure the other night,” he smirked.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Douglas reiterated as soon as the line was hung up, doing his best to turn his attention back to the images in front of him.

“I’ve got nine bodies on my hands,” the cop said, “including six British nationals who look like they’re part of some kind of senior division live action roll paying game, two armed security guards that didn’t get one shot off between them and a nineteen-year-old pregnant woman who was killed for a motorcycle. _After_ the girl dumped your ass in the middle of the desert. That’s just here in Arizona. We know she’s killed at least a dozen other people along the way, including her mother and your father.”

“Les wasn’t my father,” Douglas said matter-of-factly. “My father’s in Walpole doing Life Without.”

“So you know about that,” said the cop, putting on a highly plausible show of having already had the information himself. Douglas doubted it, but it didn’t matter.

“I know a hell of a lot about myself,” he said. “I’m so fucking self-aware it’s scary. I even have a few theories about this,” he added with a very slight smile indicating his spent cigarette as he stubbed it out and lit another. “If it was me you were looking for, I could tell you everything you needed to know.”

“Oh we know everything we need to know about you, thanks,” the assistant chief of whatever-the-hell said, trying a little too hard to sound dismissive and above it all. Doug smiled, wide as a shark, shaking his head. If ‘they’ knew a _God_ damned thing about him, ‘they’ wouldn’t have chosen to use that line. He put the photos down. There was no point staring at tumors when he couldn’t give them his full attention. He looked at the cop patiently, waiting for him to try his next approach. But he was stubbornly choosing to stay on the same wrong track.

“Your...education for example, _Doctor_ , got off to kind of a rocky start didn’t it?” Douglas stared impassively. “You were expelled—the first time that is—in 1977 from the seventh grade at St. Felix’s Academy for propositioning a nun for oral sex.” Doug smiled, at least in his head. Sister Mary-Espiretta: sweet girl, couldn’t take a joke. Not that he would have been joking if she’d happened to be up for it, but they’d both known better. That was what made it funny. If they’d have both known wrong, it would have been even funnier. That was what you called existentialist humor.

“You were nine years old at the time,” the cop pointed out when he didn’t receive any discernible response. Did this guy actually expect him to be shocked by the known facts of his own life? Douglas wondered.

“I was a precocious little bastard, wasn’t I?” he said with every outward appearance of pride and fond nostalgia.

“What was the second expulsion for?” the cop demanded rhetorically. Douglas shrugged. The word was ‘expunged’, as in ‘sponged out.’ Look it up, he thought.

“For beating, kicking and stomping the principal of the _very_ prestigious Larchwood Academe nearly to death, leaving him a paraplegic for life,” the cop answered himself.

“Rotten little bastard, too,” Douglas said dryly. They both knew that they both knew exactly what that SOB had done to deserve to get the shit kicked out of him by a twelve-year-old boy. Was this supposed to be making him feel guilty? Ashamed? Vulnerable? Was he supposed to be imagining what Faith must have lived through to make her kick that much harder? Was he supposed to be imagining that turning her over to get fried would somehow make a fitting resolution and bring closure and healing to the whole goddamned business? Christ, this guy was worse at this than the other one. It was annoying. It was like he had no training at all! Like he was an actor pretending to be a top cop. Douglas’s pulse quickened a little. Exactly like.

Douglas wished there was a 1990s equivalent of the 1911 World Series. Was there a down side to showing he was on to the guy? Worse than not getting rid of him? “Look,” Ericson said, allowing a calculated degree of his genuine agitation to show, “I have work to do! Every fucking minute of my time that you waste, _you’re_ killing people, do you realize that?” The man seemed taken aback. Involuntarily, he took a few seconds to consider this point of view and assess the moral value of his own actions. Doug smiled. Definitely not a cop. God doesn’t think he’s a doctor, but even a doctor doesn’t think he’s a Deputy Chief of Police, and neither did this guy.

Whenever you know something no one knows you know, there’s an advantage somewhere. Ericson looked for it while Douglas argued with the ‘cop’ about the relative importance of their work. He thought about setting the real cops on the Englishmen, but then they would probably just end up comparing notes. For a moment he entertained the idea that the wise move might be to kill the guy. It was something that he’d never done, but not something he’d necessarily committed to himself not to do. Considering the risks, he judged it would be an extravagant indulgence in playing the role of the Dark Hero. A little too Byronic. Especially without knowing the numbers, organization or resources of this particular enemy and what it would actually take to stop them or slow them down. _‘Wrong ideas that appeal to you....’♫Movin’-right-along...♪_

His next thought was to feed them false information, but to do any good it would have to be pretty subtle, and he knew little enough that any small lie could just as easily turn out to be true. The fact was, he didn’t know where his daughter was other than Western North America and even that was based on assumptions that might or might not be valid. So, he couldn’t lie about where she was. What about where she was going? What she was after or trying to do? The problem was, he didn’t know that either. He doubted very much if she did. Her conscious objective in coming West had been to kill him. If she wasn’t going to do that (and even that decision, he supposed, was subject to change without notice) she didn’t seem to have any clear path to a next goal.

Since her next move had apparently been to murder and rob some unlucky bystander, he guessed it was a pretty safe bet that her current goal wasn’t to get help for her mental health issues and work on becoming a productive, law abiding citizen. At least not yet. That last thought made Doug almost literally laugh. _‘Hope springs eternal...’_ Jesus Christ! He actually thought he could save the girl. He was literally trying, literally hoping for success. How sad was that? Some day he’d walk her down the aisle in her white dress and say ‘I’m so proud of you, you’ve come such a long way since you stomped your mother to death.’

“Listen up, asshole!” Douglas shouted getting up from behind his desk so fast he nearly knocked his chair over, cutting off the fake cop’s latest line of bullshit in mid sentence. “I don’t give a flying fuck who you are! I’ve told you, I don’t know a goddamned thing and I don’t have time for this shit! Now if you don’t get the fuck out of my office, security is going to get involved one way or the other and if it turns into a statewide pissing contest and a hundred fucking years of litigation, bring it on! The hospital will back me up! The _University_ will back me up, the fucking Mayo Clinic will back me up; and the Chief of Police and the Governor and whoever-the-fuck-else will hang you out to dry because I am a fucking god and you are nothing but a piss-ant cop!”

That the stranger took this abuse and left very nearly proved he was not a Deputy Chief of the Arizona State Police. One way to verify the fact to a scientific certainty would have been to take a swing at him, but then he would have known for certain what point had been proved. Dr. Ericson was sufficiently satisfied with the evidence in support of his hypothesis. He didn’t need to bother checking with the actual police and stirring them up. This latest visitor was a one of whatever the Englishmen were, bland West Coast dialect notwithstanding. Douglas wished Faith would contact him, and soon. He hoped she could manage to do it at a time and place where they wouldn’t be waiting for her.

****

“Look, just go,” Xander said to his parents, “We’ll talk about it when I get back from school. They’re letting me switch to the afternoon class so I don’t miss the first day, but I have to go now or I’ll be late.”

“Let’s just get the hell out of here, Jessica,” Tony agreed, “before I see that bastard without his robe on and do something I’ll regret.” Jessica looked worried but Xander knew better. _Say_ something he’d regret maybe. _Doing_ something was not much of a Harris family quality. If he’d inherited whatever it took to _do_ something, Xander thought, he’d be halfway to Mexico with Cordelia and Garrett Chase could kiss the State of California.

Whatever. Like it or lump it, Xander was moving back into his parents’ house or they were all going to jail. Which meant they’d have plenty of time to yell and scream about all of this later. He turned the corner going the opposite way from his parents, fishing in his pocket for Ira’s key chain, glad he’d parked on the other side of the Courthouse.  Suddenly, he felt himself slammed back against the wall of the empty corridor with surprising force. For a panicked instant he thought vampires, but before he could react to that thought, he found his field of vision filled by a confusingly familiar face.

“Giles!” Xander cried out, “What the Hell?”

“Listen to me you little shit,” Giles enunciated with razor edged precision. His eyes were hard and bright and he wore a toothy expression that in no way shape of form could make you think you were being smiled at. His hands still gripped the functional lapels of the shirt Xander was wearing as a jacket, but it was mainly his expression that kept the young man pinned to the wall. “Buffy is my wife,” he said. “She is the mother of my child. I have given everything that I have ever worked for or cared about to be with her. I’d have given my life. I may yet.”

“Giles, hey, no, you’ve got—” Xander began, intending to explain his total lack of romantic interest in Buffy, at least in the present tense.

“Shut up!” Giles snapped, then returning to his hard, quiet, menacing tone, “I don’t want to hear your excuses. Buffy may be innocent enough not to understand why a married woman can’t be found sitting in parked cars ‘talking’ with gentleman friends at two o’clock in the morning, but _I_ know perfectly well what you’d really like to do to her, so please do me the courtesy of not pretending that either one of us is a fool.” Finally releasing Xander from his grasp, Giles breathed out as if relieved to have gotten the matter off his chest.

Xander was on the verge of making some vaguely apologetic comment in the interest of smoothing over hard feelings and moving on without necessarily admitting that Giles was less than one hundred percent wrong about his residual feelings for Buffy when Giles began speaking again in a much calmer, more even, teacherly, almost pleasant tone. “Now listen very carefully,” he said, “because, I assure you, we will not discuss this subject again. If you manage to succeed in coming between Buffy and me, it will be the last thing you ever do. I will kill you before I let you take her from me. And I want to be very clear about this, because I am not using a metaphor or an exaggeration. I will end your life before I let you destroy my family. I will gut you with my sword, bury your body in an unmarked grave, go home to my lovely wife and look her in her beautiful green eyes and tell her that I’m very worried about you because I have no idea where you could have gone. Am I making myself clear?”

Giles wasn’t venting anymore. He seemed to be perfectly in control of his temper. Two or three people had passed them by without realizing that there was anything happening other than a friendly conversation. “Oh yeah,” Xander assured him hoarsely, nodding vigorously, “Clear. We are all kinds of clear here.”

****

“We have a very serious problem,” Virgil Gaudencio said gravely when the six of them where gathered in the room designed for seven. “One of us is not one of us.”

“That is a very grave thing to say,” Julian Wyndham-Pryce pointed out, “especially since Quentin is not here to defend himself.”

“I don’t say it lightly,” Virgil assured him.

“What have you learned?” Davidson asked.

“He lied to us,” said Virgil grimly. “In this room, in Secret Session, he swore and gave false evidence in support of Striking Rupert Giles from the Registry.”

“I _knew_ it!” Robson declared, appealing to Crowne for support, “Did I not tell you that recording was tampered with?”Crowne nodded.

“How do you know?” Davidson asked calmly, addressing Virgil.

“Andrew came to me and confessed to tampering with the evidence through the use of magic and to using the same means to confuse Quentin regarding the issue.” Looks of shock were exchanged. Julian actually gasped.

“I’ll never believe it!” Michael Dunstan declared hoarsely shaking his withered fist and getting halfway to his feet as if that degree of action were needed to impel his voice forward.

“Neither did I,” Virgil explained crossly. “Not that I’d put it past him, mind you, but if he were going to go so far as to alter the memories of an Equal of the Inner Council through the use of the dark arts, I feel confident that he could make better use of the investment than to palm off that silly tape on us. No, Quentin must have altered the tape, which would be easy enough physically and easier magically.”

“Then why on Earth would _Andrew_ of all people confess to it?” Julian wondered aloud.

“And to Virgil specifically,” Davidson added, converting Julian’s mere expression of bewilderment into a precise statement of the critical issue. Crowne and Robson exchanged an uneasy look.

“Rupert,” Dunstan concluded bitterly. “He’s _gotten_ to them. All the more reason why he should be Stricken!”

“On the basis of a recommendation Quentin obtained by deceit?” Virgil demanded.

“That degenerate is strong-arming his own father into using deceit to corrupt the workings of the Council at every level!” Dunstan declared hotly.

“You don’t say,” Virgil retorted caustically. “And here I thought Andrew had suddenly started giving a damn about his son.”

“What the devil could anyone do to make _Andrew_ throw himself on his sword for _Quentin_?” Julian repeated, “particularly for something he’s never even been caught at?”

“Quentin wanted to have Rupert Stricken because he hates him for implicating him in poor Charles’s murder among other things,” Dunstan explained contemptuously. “So he practiced upon Virgil’s... emotionalism to get him to vote in favor of the Strike. I realized of course that the tape was entirely for his benefit and for that purpose, but I assumed that it was also a true recording.”

“Then Rupert somehow discovered the secret to getting both Andrew and Quentin in his corner,” Virgil chimed in, preferring even the indignity of discussing the matter himself to hearing that ancient crocodile discuss it, “and they quickly discovered the need to bat me back in the other direction for my votes.”

Milton nearly laughed out loud. “So Quentin suddenly found himself needing to undo his little trick, without admitting to having done it.”

“I still don’t understand why Andrew—” Julian began again doggedly.

“Rupert has threatened to tell the world that Andrew Giles is Peter Travers’ son,” Robson clarified calmly.

Julian blinked about a hundred and fifty times in ten seconds. Everyone else exchanged a superior look at his expense. “Why am I always the last to know these things?”he demanded. This remark was met by an outbreak of surreptitious and semi-surreptitious smiles and a moderate amount of ‘coughing.’

“We are getting rather wide of the point,” Virgil noted impatiently, “which is that Quentin Travers, who is still, in name at least, a member of this Council has deliberately deceived us and broken his vows. I want to know what is to be done about it!”

“Well, I never supported his membership as you well know,” Dunstan pointed out, “personally, I’m for Striking the lot of them.”

“Brilliant,” said Robson sarcastically, “let vengeance be done though the heavens fall!”

“I think I’ve shown the forbearance of a saint to sit in Council with that murderer these past eleven years!”Dunstan retorted leaning forward onto the table and shaking his fist again. The look of utter distain this declaration provoked from Virgil Gaudencio would have frozen a lesser man like the eye of Medusa, but Dunstan was unfazed. “I was harangued and admonished and prevailed upon by my Brother Watchers,” he continued with suffering dignity, “including you, Dear Virgil, to ‘give him the benefit of the doubt’ for the ‘sins of youth’ though he was over forty when our Charles was killed! Well, now that all ‘doubt’ as to the content of his mature character has been removed, I say he should be Stricken. If I were a vengeful man, I’d say he should be hanged!”The old man sat down, more than half winded, adding more quietly, “I don’t see how any of that changes what we’ve already agreed that Rupert deserves, and Andrew’s certainly as bad as the rest of them. I cannot imagine how ridding ourselves of these three bad apples is going to bring down the heavens or anything else.”

“So,” said Milton Crowne, grinning sardonically, “just to be clear, you propose that as a Council made up entirely of the five Elder Houses, we publicly demand the elimination of one of the two Younger Houses the decapitation of the other and the Striking of the single most respected member of the Outer Council into the bargain, all on the same day that we are choosing to make a mortal enemy of the best Slayer we’ve had in a dozen years, all on the assumption that there will be no ill effects whatsoever on the structure or function of the Council as a whole, which by the way is already stretched well beyond all previously imagined limits. Is that about it?” Dunstan endured this impertinent assessment in stoic silence.

“I have a proposal,” Davidson said quietly. Everyone stopped and looked at him. Davidson never had a proposal. “I propose we do nothing publicly,” he began. That sounded more like Davidson. “We should not officially withdraw our recommendation to Strike Rupert, but we should see to it that it doesn’t happen. Living through that process ought to impress upon him and upon the Slayer the seriousness of what they’ve done. Therefore, disciplinary action in both cases should be minimal. In fact, we are going to have to do something to prevent Rupert’s expulsion as well, unless we want to encourage this... Sterling insurgency. Because once this session has ended I think we shall have to privately explain to both Quentin and Andrew the many benefits of a long, quiet and _secluded_ retirement.”

“They can grow cabbages,” Dunstan sneered.

“So long as they stay out of our way,” Davidson suggested philosophically.

“Of the three, I’d most like to Strike Quentin,” Virgil noted.

“Even if you have to explain to the Outer Council what an utter fool he’s made of you in order to do so?” Robson asked.

“Of us,” Virgil corrected him.

“No one else changed his vote over that... sentimental nonsense,” Dunstan rejoined sharply.

“You just said you were all for Striking him!” Virgil pointed out indignantly. “You needn’t attack me _while_ I’m supporting your arguments!”

“Habit,” Dunstan less than half apologized. “I’m just so used to you attacking me.”

“If I were attacking you,” Virgil said crisply, “I’ve have called you a hypocritical old assassin with more headstones to his credit than the three murderers in question put together. Probably even more than ‘our Charles’.”

“Gentlemen!” Julian admonished, “I fear we are getting off task.”

“ _I_ fear,” Robson declared, “that if we do not officially Resend the Recommendations to Strike and Expel Rupert, they may end up being acted upon despite our second-best efforts, and much to our regret!”

“I’ll not regret it!” Dunstan declared.

“Nor I,” Julian agreed.

“I think I should regret every available choice,” said Virgil bitterly, “and so shall we all.”

“Well then,” Dunstan pointed out, “where are the votes to Resend? I for one will continue to work to see that these very wise Recommendations are carried out!”

“I’ll vote to Resend,” Virgil declared firmly.

“I will not,” said Davidson, “and neither will Quentin, because the moment we call for a vote to Resend, particularly with regard to Expulsion, he will know that we know everything, and his motives will shift again.”

“But why won’t _you_?” Robson asked, frustrated and perplexed. “You have no more wish to see Rupert Stricken than I have!”

“Which is why I voted against that particular Recommendation,” Davidson explained. “But declining to take an action and resending it are two very different things. It is one thing for an executive body to show mercy from a position of strength, quite another to be pushed into withholding justice under apparent duress. Even assuming no one in the Outer Council has a clue what has happened, they will see a tentativeness in our judgment that will leave them forevermore wondering if and when we might not mean what we say, and even if they don’t the Slayer will. Then, pray tell me, how are we going to keep Slayer and Council together?

“Authority binds the Slayer to the Council. Not knowledge, not mere information, better and worse grades of which can be had anywhere. Authority. Rock solid certainty. That is all we have to offer her as a reason to accept our direction. We can be bested by her strength, by her courage, by her cleverness even; but we cannot fold our hands and say we were wrong to oppose her and have thought better of it! If we start down that path she will soon believe that she can take or leave our suggested guidance and that she may seek elsewhere for knowledge and find all that she needs. She will be wrong, of course, and we and all Mankind will suffer for it! No, we cannot Resend the Recommendations. We have drawn our line in the sand and we must defend it, even as we do our best to make sure we are defeated.”

****

“Ms. Chase,” Mr. Miller acknowledged, seeing Cordelia in the doorway, “We missed you in class today. What can I do for you this afternoon?”She didn’t bother to correct him on who had actually been in his classroom that morning. The fewer people who knew a secret, the easier it was to keep.

“I finished those exercises,” she said, handing him an unsealed manila envelope. In light of all the circumstances, he had made it clear that he would only take their messages unsealed. “Do you have any more assignments for me?”

“Not today,” he said, “Though I was told to ask how you’re ‘getting on’ with the Book of Revelation,” he noted, sounding more than usually amused.

“If he means reading it,” Cordelia informed him, “I’m half way there. If he means buying it, I’m not even close.”Mr. Miller made a small, noncommittal expression. “I’d better go,” Cordelia told her teacher hurriedly, worriedly. Her father would be angry enough when he learned she had “cut class” second through fourth periods today, but at least he would know she hadn’t been with Xander today because he had. She needed to get home while that was still true.

“There is one more thing,” she said, suddenly remembering. “I can’t risk being seen with Buffy or Willow at school anymore. We may need you to handle more communications for us.”

****

Elaine tried her husband’s mobile number again from the taxi. He still wouldn’t pick up. She sent another text message and once again got an immediate if not very civil response. She was starting to feel genuinely worried about the viability of her marriage. She’d known, of course, that Peter would be angry when (after waiting late into last night for a plane she’d never gotten off of) he learned that she’d left the children in London and was coming to Sunnydale alone to discuss their family’s future. But she’d never expected anything like this... childishness.

He must be feeling very hurt, very disrespected. She hadn’t meant it that way. She was just... utterly disregarding his considered determination as to what was best for his family and substituting her own judgment for his. It wasn’t as though she’d wanted to do that. Peter was her husband. He was the head of the household. She respected him entirely and accepted his authority completely. The problem was, in this particular case, she knew in the pit of her stomach that he was wrong, and there was far too much at stake for her to ignore that knowledge.

It was a nice enough looking house. Red brick, two story but not large, two big trees in the tiny front yard, a high wooden fence around the reportedly tiny back yard. There were no curtains or blinds on the windows. That struck her as odd. She’d been under the impression that Peter had spent the last two nights there. She could hardly imagine him doing that without covering a single window. Peter was always so uncomfortable about the idea of being watched.

The cabby offered to carry her bags inside, but she’d only brought one moderately sized suitcase in addition to her carry-on and her handbag. She gave him a large tip anyhow and told him she could manage. There was something about handling foreign currency that made her feel generous, as if its value were unreal, the money that had been exchanged for it already gone. That was especially true of these gritty, monochromatic American bills with their slightly preworn texture and newsprint quality images, like rough sketches of the idea of paper money.

“May the Good Lord bless and keep you!” the driver said by way of parting with real warmth, and unless she was imagining it, real concern. At least he didn’t try to warn her to get in before the sun set.

Which actually might be a problem, she realized, a moment after he had driven away. She turned the knob, but the knob didn’t turn. She rang the bell. Nothing. She knocked. No response.

She messaged Peter, “I’m here”.

He messaged back, “Come in.”

Elaine sighed, exasperated. She was half way through typing that she couldn’t ‘come in’ because the door was locked, contemplating that she might add it was a damn good thing it was if he wasn’t going to be any more careful than that about throwing out invitations sight unseen. She stopped. After all, a text message could be from anybody. She could have asked him something only Peter would know, but that would have proved nothing.

The small porch was covered, but Elaine judged that the late afternoon sun was still bright enough. She took her passport and traveler’s checks out of her carry-on and put them in her purse. She set her luggage eighteen inched in front of the door and stood about three feet back from it. “It’s locked” she typed, “come let me in.”

“Come in the back door,” her correspondent answered.

“The gate’s locked,” Elaine replied. Her heart was pounding. She felt sick. Don’t panic, she warned herself. Don’t jump to conclusions.

“Are you sure?”

“I just checked,” she lied. “Come let me in the front.”

There was a significant pause. More than a minute passed. More than two or three. The consciousness on the other end of the line had a puzzle to solve. Which didn’t necessarily mean that Peter Travers wasn’t alive somewhere, Elaine had to remind herself. Possibly even in that house. After all, if he had been turned, he could still have come to the phone. He might have only been captured. Or he might be dead by even the strictest definition.

One good thing about text messaging, whoever she was talking to couldn’t see her fingers shaking as she typed, “Open this door now or I’m fining for divorce.”

Another pause and then, “I’m not here. Come in a window or something. I’ll be home in a few hours.”

Elaine didn’t bother responding. Instead she called her father-in-law and, after exchanging a few words of worry, obtained the phone numbers of Rupert Giles and his wife.

****

“Wow,” said Oz when Willow had told him the most dramatic and distracting gossip she could think of to avoid discussing the recent events of her own life, “I never really pegged him as the jealous type. He’s so... well, I don’t know if ‘calm’ is exactly the word, but not a hot head.”

“Xander said he was cool as a cucumber when he told him how he was going to do it and what he was going to do with his body after,” Willow confirmed uneasily.

“I’m guessing this was sort of an if/then statement,” Oz suggested. He didn’t seem too worried about it, but then he was Oz, so it was hard to tell.

“Yeah,” said Willow miserably, “like a notice from the phone company. I don’t think he realizes yet... who he’s dealing with.”

Oz smiled in place of a laugh, which would have been too painful, “Which one?” he asked.

“That’s a good question,” Willow admitted worriedly. “I’m not sure either of them’s thinking too clearly on that point.”

Oz shrugged. “I’m sorry your friends aren’t getting along, but it’s not like anything’s going to happen,” he tried to reassure her, “I mean, _Xander_ can be a hot head and he can push anybody’s buttons, but neither of them is really the murderer type.”

Willow gave him the miserably doubtful look of someone who has further reason to suspect unpleasant facts. “Well, no, not... exactly,” she admitted, “but Xander can be... very protective of his girl friends... I mean his, you known, female friends...”

“I noticed,” Oz admitted with a painful grimace.

“And Giles... well there was this one time in the seventies when he sort of...” Willow laughed nervously, “decapitated one of his roommates with an ax?—I mean, there were circumstances—mostly having to do with black magic, which he used to be really, really into before he, you know, killed his friend—but still....”

“That makes a difference,” Oz agreed. He usually figured people out pretty quickly, but he always made sure to allow for the possibility of refiguring. Some people needed a lot of it.

“Well,” he said after a while, sitting up straighter in bed and pulling Willow a little closer in a way that he hoped was reassuring, “I say we let Buffy worry about it. She kills demons with her bare hands. I think she can handle a couple of guys with testosterone poisoning.”

“I guess,” Willow agreed, still sounding extremely troubled. She laid her head on Oz’s chest, and he smoothed his hand through her hair. She was so beautiful and precious and good hearted. He hated that she was going through such a hard time right now. He had a feeling her home life, including the magical messed-upness of it, was what she was most upset about, that and the lack of friendships that tends to result from all of your friends hating and/or being court ordered not to see each other.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, turning her face to him and kissing her on the lips. “Whatever happens with them, we have us.” She kissed him back with fierce hungry, desperate, sad, seeking passion. Her body was as warm and inviting as her kiss. Oz wanted to be as together with her as it was possible to be and he knew with certainty that she wanted the same thing. He also knew there was no point in attempting a unified sexual act. Two halves would just have to add up to a whole the best they could.

Oz ran his hand up the inside of Willow’s thigh, under her skirt and over her tights reaching for the place where her thighs met. He was maybe moving a little fast, but everything about the way she was kissing and clinging to him said that was what she wanted. Besides, time was of the essence. His new ‘roommate’ would be back from Kiddy League practice in about half an hour. Somehow, he didn’t think his seven-year-old cousin would understand the meaning of a coat hanger on the doorknob.

But his fingers had barely brushed her through two layers of undergarments when Willow let out a high pitched, sort of strangled scream and jumped up from the bed, pushing him roughly backwards against the headboard. Oz cried out in agony. “What!?!” he demanded as soon as the white hot pain receded enough to let him speak. Suddenly, he realized that Willow was leaning against the dresser, apparently needing the support, holding her face in her hands, weeping hysterically.

Oz got out of bed and walked over to Willow. He laid his hand on her shoulder very carefully, but she still flinched. Yet, an instant later, she was clinging to him again, still crying uncontrollably.

“Oh God, Oz! I’m _so_ sorry!” she wailed, “I didn’t mean—” Her voice broke off in a sob.

“Willow,” Oz whispered, wrapping her in his strong arms, “it’s okay. Nobody’s mad at you. You’re safe. You’re totally safe here, just tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing,” she sobbed, trying unsuccessfully to get a hold of herself, “I just—you just—started me, that’s all.” She turned her face away from him, drying her eyes, crying more quietly now, laying the side of her head against his chest. The explanation didn’t sound entirely false, but it was nowhere near the whole truth. She had definitely been shocked into sudden, defensive, _reflexive_ flight at the merest suggestion of his touch against the sexual parts of her body. The question was, what had changed in the three weeks since she’d practically attacked him on his almost deathbed to reprogram her reflexes that much?

“Something happened to you,” Oz said matter-of-factly. “What is it?”

****

“Well?” Spike asked impatiently, “what did she say?”

“Nothing,” Harmony half whined half pouted.

Peter Grinned. “I... told you... she was... smarter... than that,” he gasped proudly, still stubbornly keeping his back to the wall and his sword ready to swing.

Spike bared his teeth in return. “Getting thirsty yet?” he asked.

“Not a bit!” the young Watcher rasped hoarsely, but even if he’d tanked up like a camel before coming downstairs, he was going on forty-eight hours. Humans had to drink more often than vampires. They had a few tricks for dealing with that when they got desperate enough in Spike’s experience. You couldn’t just shut them in a room and _assume_ they’d be dead in three days. But this one literally didn’t have a pot to piss in nor the luxury of letting his guard down long enough to drink. His bladder must be full to bursting, come to that. Letting go of that claw hold on dignity should let some of the wind out of him shortly.

Spike was tempted to rush him now, more than half figuring that he lacked to strength to stay on his feet when challenged. But his own healing was progressing fairly slowly since he too had had nothing to drink these last two days. The skin was barely grown over his wound. Intestines still tried to spill out through his torn abdominal wall every time he moved. Spike could fight through the pain if he had too, but he felt sure Peter would be literally ready to fall over soon enough. He could be patient.

****

“Do they suspect our involvement?” the superior asked his agent, “him or the girl?”

“General, I do not believe they suspect our _existence_ ,” the not-at-all-Deputy-Chief-of-the-Arizona-State-Police informed his commander. “Although he pretended to believe me an American police official,” he explained, “it is clear that Ericson took me for one of that Cabal of Heretics that continues to use the name of the Council of Watchers.”

“And what of the girl herself, ‘Faith’?” Even over the wireless, without the subtle hint of an expression as a guide, Orlando could hear the very slight variation in his superior’s inflection that told him the General was amused. He tried not to judge this frivolousness too harshly. Everyone has his own way.

“I did not observe anything by which we could confirm our conclusions,” he noted gravely. “However, I saw no reason to believe the contrary, and I personally remain convinced. ‘Though no man fathered her, she is her father’s daughter.’” he recited, “‘She brings him regret and her mother death. She is the Slayer, and she is not the Slayer. Her light comes from darkness though she knows it not.’ That is the riddle. Do you see a better answer?”

****

“Could you turn that... device off for ten seconds and look at me?”Giles half sulked half scolded.

“I’m texting,” Buffy mumbled sullenly.

“I can see that,” said Giles thinly. “I’m asking you to please stop and... be here with me.”

“Oh, I’m here!” Buffy said hotly, throwing the phone down on the cheap wood print and Plexiglas coffee table in Dr. Kim’s waiting room. “With you! You and nobody else but you!”

“What _exactly_ is that supposed to mean?” Giles demanded. People were staring and whispering slightly more than usual.

“It means,” Buffy whispered fiercely, “That this is the very, very late twentieth century and I ought to be able to text or talk or hang out with my friends—including my guy friends—without my _husband_ threatening to _murder_ them!”

Giles was stunned. That boy really had no sense of... well it was hard to say what it was exactly that he had no sense of, but he had no sense of it! Giles supposed he shouldn’t have expected any more discretion from a person who saw no harm in being ‘parked’ behind the Taco Bell with another man’s wife at two a.m. with no better explanation of what they were doing there than ‘talking’ or ‘hanging out’. Still, he was shocked that, in this context, anyone who even aspired to be a man would have repeated what was so clearly said between men to the woman in question.

Before he had quite formulated a response to this revelation, the phone rang. “Please do not answer that,” he said, his voice mostly cool and even, only slightly strained. Buffy picked up the phone, flipped it open and greeted the caller with a passably cheerful, ‘hello.’ Giles looked at the ceiling, breathing out in silent, angry frustration. Of course, he should have realized, she’d have to make a point of _not_ doing as he asked just to show him he wasn’t ‘the boss of her’.

“This is who?” Buffy asked, sounding worried.

“Elaine Travers,” the woman repeated. “I’m Peter’s wife. Is this Mrs. Giles?”

“ _Summers_ -Giles,” Buffy corrected her. There was slight edge to her voice even though she didn’t mean for there to be. She hoped Elaine hadn’t noticed. The look on Giles’ face said he certainly had, but she didn’t feel much like taking his looks into account right now. She felt more like punching him in the face, maybe even a tiny bit like gutting him with a sword.

“It’s Peter,” the woman said, with what Buffy suddenly registered as grave but retrained distress, “he is in terrible danger if he hasn’t been killed already. I think there are vampires in the house.”

Buffy cursed. Giles’ expression shifted from disgruntled to concerned. “Stay where you are,” she said, “or the nearest place with plenty of bright sunlight. We’ll be right there.” Giles was already putting on his coat. Buffy stayed on the phone with Elaine as they walked to the parking lot, getting directions and details. In the car, she put her hand over the phone and gave him driving instructions and a terse account of what was happening.

“Good Lord!” he said horrified, “I hope we’re not too late.” Buffy refrained from pointing out that she’d suggested checking on Peter more than a day ago. She’d suggested it but she hadn’t done it. She had ignored her own instincts. She had listened to her husband.

****

Douglas stood next to the huge ashtray topped trashcan by the south entrance of the hospital with his hands in his pockets and his cigarette pressed between his lips looking out at the desert sunset over the visitor’s parking lot, doing something slightly more or less than thinking. Normally he wouldn’t have come all the way down here for a smoke. Besides the hassle, he hated the constant threat of forced socializing with his fellow smokers, mostly a lot of fat older nurses and nurse’s aides who thought a nasty, dangerous addiction was something to have a sense of camaraderie about. But fake cops notwithstanding Dr. Ericson knew he needed the support of the hospital in dealing with the real cops. It was a good time to start being a better employee.

Mercifully, none of the sisterhood of the cancer stick were in residence at the moment. Douglas was left in peace to contemplate the slow approach of night. Within a few moments he switched to contemplating the slow approach of a good-looking blonde who was taking her sweet time sauntering across the lot and up the side walk. Her breasts rolled towards him in a red tube top almost as tight as her ripped denim shorts, swaying to the same gentle rhythm as her just-below-the-chin length in-swept hair. A bright point of diamond glittered meaningfully at the center of her beautifully concave abdomen. Oversized shades, in red plastic frames the color of her lipstick, drew attention to the fact that there was no knowing what was going on behind her unseen eyes. She looked like sex on a California beach, and she was proud of it.

About five yards out, she began pushing and wriggling the fingers of her right hand into her impossibly tight front pocket where they continued to explore for some unseen treasure as she kept up her steady tidal roll towards him. Doug was sure this display of finger work was being staged entirely for his benefit, especially when the item she’d been fishing for turned out to be a cigarette. She didn’t stop when she got to where Doug was standing. She tumbled against him like a wave crashing on shore. His brain reset to zero as she pressed her body against his and put her lips to his ear. It was like a scene from one of those old-fashioned porno movies where one event leads implausibly to another in a rough approximation of a plot.

“Got a light, Doc?” she sighed against his ear, sounding both deliberately titillating and cruelly amused.

Douglas took a long step back, shaking his head, with a noise between a sniff of contempt and a snort of ironic laughter. He regarded her mischievous expression for a fraction of a second and took another, longer step back, tossing her the lighter. “Next time, Kid, just ask,” he said with what he judged to be a convincing tone of cool indifference, glad to be wearing his long white coat.  He took a long, deep, desperate drag on his cigarette while she lit her own. Her smile widened in a way that he imagined to be a comment on his demeanor. “Sometimes a cigarette is just a death wish,” he said, aware that he was probably protesting a little too much, but nevertheless feeling the need to continue protesting. “Find someone else to project your complexes onto.”

Fortunately (or unfortunately) Faith didn’t seem to know a hell of a lot about psychology. “Jesus, Doug,” she said with casual contempt, taking his hostility at face value, “get a fucking sense of humor.” She had no notion of the wraps and cracks in the soul of the man she was playing at tempting. Whether she was seeking rejection to validate her low sense of self-worth, creating sexual danger from which she could be rescued by his heroically selfless love or just offering the one thing she knew was lovable about herself in exchange for a desperately needed human connection, she could have picked a more reliable target. But then, of course, he hadn’t been so much picked as predestined. She wasn’t transferring her Daddy issues onto some convenient bystander. She had cut a bloody swath through a continent to find the genuine article. It was a shame he was such a sorry son-of-a-bitch and not someone who might actually be able to help her, to give her the heroically selfless love she needed. But then, of course, that guy would never have left her in the first place. That guy would never have screwed Lennette either. That guy could never have been Faith’s father. Douglas Ericson was. He’d Goddamned well better keep that fact in mind, that was all.

“Good job with the new look, by the way,” Douglas said sarcastically, looking for anything else to talk about, and okay _maybe_ picking a fight with her over something insignificant to get a little emotional distance. “You blend.”

Faith shrugged. “Screw you,” she said with cheerful defiance. “I can wear what I want. Besides,” she added, gesturing towards her breasts in the same way used by models on ‘The Price is Right’ to call attention to their fabulous bottles of dish washing liquid, “it’s not like the cops are gonna be looking at my face in this outfit. You know what I’m sayin’?”

“How’s the not killing people going?” Ericson asked. Still trying to get her at arm’s length.

Faith looked out across the parking lot, towards the car she’d gotten out of, and took a long drag on her own cigarette. “I’m cutting way back,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to sound flippant, sounding both nervous and defensive instead, “I never promised I was going to quit.”

And what, exactly, could you say to that? “How are you doing otherwise?” Douglas asked.

“Five by five,” she said coolly, still not looking at him, pretending to be indifferent rather than conflicted and afraid of being judged. It was an answer that didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense to him at first. He was about to tell her she was using her old ham radio terms incorrectly. But then, he suddenly realized, that was assuming she was speaking from the point of view of a human being, the person receiving and not the thing that had been sent. Douglas shivered a little. He could give her the five for strength, but she was definitely overestimating on clarity.

“How’s the nose?” she asked, her tone very slightly tinged with concern, maybe even remorse, as though this slight wrong was all she had ever done to him.

“It feels fine,” Doug said indifferently. “Makes me look like a goddamned thug, though. Do you need any more money?” Dr. Ericson asked, suddenly eager to deal with practicalities and get done with this little visit.

“I have enough for now,” she said. “I’m sleepin’ indoors.”

“Have you seen any more of those English bastards?” Douglas asked.

“Careful there, Doc,” Faith teased, bouncing on the balls of her feet with infantile coquettishness, “I think you’re starting to over identify with the psychotic killer.”

Douglas shrugged. “Actually, I’m over empathizing,” he explained, “dangerously close to sympathizing. If I was over identifying I’d probably rat you out to the cops and then go hang myself. Besides, you’re not psychotic. You have a disintegrative personality disorder with narcissistic features, labile rage, high impulsivity and mild to moderate paranoid tendencies complicated by acute and chronic psychological trauma, high levels of environmental stressors and unprocessed issues of guilt and grief. I _might_ think you had delusions of grandeur and persecution, but since you have super-strength and you’re being hunted by some kind of freaky international secret society, ‘over-valued ideas’ is about as far as I can go with that.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Faith shaking her head, “what are you a shrink?”

Douglas shrugged, “Not really,” he admitted, “but I am a medical doctor with a BA in Psychology (among other things) and a list of personal issues that looks like the symptom index to the DSM-IV. The Big Book of Crazy,” he explained in response to her impatiently puzzled look. “Besides, I know everything about everything. Just ask me.”

“So what do you know about these English bastards?” Faith asked.

“Not much,” Doug said pensively. “One of them came to my office today pretending to be a cop. I think they want to do something besides stop you.”

“So does the fucking State of Arizona,” Faith pointed out, mistaking his meaning.

“Not that,” Douglas explained, “Or not _just_ that, I don’t think. I mean you’ve got all this power and these guys sure come off like the Secret Unholy Order of Something-or-Other to me. I figure they want to harness you up to something one way or another.”

“Fuck ’em,” Faith said, fishing a second cigarette out of her pocket much more efficiently than the first and lighting it, pocketing the lighter. “Let the bastards try.”

“We don’t know how many of them there are,” Douglas pointed out, “and they seem pretty well organized. I think we should be trying to find out who they are and what they want.”

“So find out,” Faith instructed him indifferently, “you’re a goddamned scholar. Do some fucking research. Look shit up.”

“Look under what?” Douglas asked. “I don’t know what the hell these guys are called. Hell, I don’t even know the name for whatever you are.”

“Whatever it is,” Faith said contemplatively, “it’s something fierce and... ancient. I’m not just a hot chick with super powers. I’m... connected to something. Filled with something. Something important. I don’t know. It feels like... the living Wrath of God.”

“See, now that right there,” Doug said, only slightly less than one hundred percent serious, “that’s psychotic.”

Faith smiled darkly. Douglas could feel her unseen eyes boring into him. “It could be," she admitted, “but not if it’s The Truth.”

****

“Message? No there’s no message,” Snyder told Gwendolyn feigning mild bafflement very unconvincingly. She refrained from smiling. How plainly she could read his eyes! He had indeed received her instructions at the time and place appointed. She was to leave Sunnydale at once. He didn’t want her to go. He was willing to derail what he imagined to be her mission in life so that he could keep her hiding in his basement from the INS by day and sucking his tiny cock by night. His selfish, grasping, desperate desire for her was so infantile it was almost... sweet. Which was what men called girls when they didn’t mind that they were pathetic.

Gwendolyn didn’t mind. And for the same reason. She wanted him weak, helpless, pathetic. She didn’t want a partner, not even a partner in crime. She wanted a tool, a patsy, a minion, someone she could use and discard. Snyder was just such a disposable person. The fact that he thought he was using, manipulating and controlling her, the fact that he was eaten up with guilt over transgressing the imaginary boundaries of ‘civilized’ society to do so was... sweet.

****

“If you kill me,” Peter pointed out tiredly, grimacing with pain from the effort, “if you turn me, even, Buffy will just slay us both. Your best move is to retreat before it’s too late,” he pontificated. Flagging though he was, he managed to retain some of the intellectual smugness of a teacher _explaining things_ to a particularly thick student.

“Best move only from your perspective, Mate,” Spike scoffed. It was a pity that he had not had the opportunity to kill a great many more of his old teachers. Like most of them, Head Master Travers was not only very smug but very wrong. Even if the woman had gone for help at once, even if she brought the Slayer, the house appeared empty. Assuming he half understood the mechanism that prevented them from opening the closet from the inside, he doubted they could be heard or sensed until it was opened. The point of throwing your enemy down an oubliette, after all, is to forget him. Whatever sorcerer or demon had previously inhabited this house seemed to have had the same idea about closets.

It didn’t work both ways of course. When Buffy kicked in Peter Travers’ front door, the whole house shook with the noise. “What if she _does_ look in here?” Harmony worried aloud. “Why wouldn’t she?”

“Why would she,” Spike countered. “The place is empty. No sign of a struggle. Watcher Jr. has his wallet bulging in his pocket. It looks like he walked away from the place and we grabbed him somewhere else. In fact,” he added, thinking about it a moment, “call her and tell her so. Go and stand at the other end of the tunnel so she won’t be able to make out what he’s saying if he shouts.”

Harmony gave her master an extremely doubtful look. “How will I know what to say?” she worried. Spike had to admit she had a point. The fact annoyed him more than a little. He really needed for her not to be quite so stupid and helpless and dependent on him right now.

“Just... sod! I don’t know! Tell her we’re at the factory!” he barked in frustration.

“Okay, okay!” Harmony sulked. “Just remember, if it doesn’t work it was your idea.” She started to slouch sullenly down the tunnel, then turned and asked, totally confused, “What factory?”

****

“When are we going to find a better place to meet in Sunnydale than this...burned out wreck of a building?” Ms. Caramel complained. Perching on the edge of the long work table, one high black boot crossed over the other beneath her long black dress and overcoat, fanning her black hair back from her bulldog face with the wide brim of her round black hat, she was the very picture of a witch.

“It’ll take some time to sell the ranch and buy a suitable place here,” Ms. Waddle pointed out, leaning against the one remaining chair in her typical, drab workday garb. “Of course, if all goes to plan, She’ll provide us our real meeting place, but it’s much too soon to bring up any of that. The whole issue is thorny emotionally, legally and magically. We don’t want to risk losing the chance to get Her to trust us. In the meantime, I suggest we go ahead with the idea of leasing that shop downtown. We certainly don’t need to make Her drive clear to the other side of L.A. or have to have us in Her home constantly at this stage. We want to make it as easy as possible for Her to come to us.”

“Especially since _He_ already has his claws in Her,” Ms. Myrtle chirped crisply in her high baby-bird voice. She sat, cross legged, not on but level with the top of the table, in her red pants suit with flared hips and shoulders. Her smooth, plain, pallid face had an ageless appearance slightly at odds with the steel gray color of her pageboy haircut.

“Oh I wouldn’t worry too much about _Him,_ ” Ms Caramel advised with a small contemptuous laugh. “He’s much too proud to show her the respect she needs, especially since, the way He would see it, She’s already supposed to belong to Him. Nor are any of His ‘clerics’ likely to be able to give her any meaningful guidance. He’s so stingy, most of his own people can’t say from personal experience that He _has_ any power. They certainly don’t trust Him to use it when they need Him to and neither will She.”

“Well...” Ms. Waddle admitted, seeming a little uneasy about this line of discussion, “She did say She had talked a few times with Her Rabbi about... all of this.”

“And what did he tell her?” Ms. Caramel demanded haughtily.

“Basically, ‘go and sin no more,’” Ms. Waddle admitted, “though of course he didn’t put it that way exactly.”

“There, you see,” said Ms. Caramel with a smug sense of finality, “nothing to worry about.”

Ms. Myrtle _said_ nothing, but her face perfectly expressed both her doubts and her wait and see posture regarding them.

“She really hasn’t the slightest idea what She is at all has She?” Ms. Caramel surmised indignantly.

“Evidently not,” Ms. Waddle agreed, still smiling uncomfortably. “The Councilmen have told Her that She is a ‘Natural Witch’, which the fact that they’re still calling it that tells you how little they understand about it. I’d say there’s an excellent chance that by the time She figures out how Her power works, She’ll already be used to thinking of Herself as one of us.”

****

“The two main floors are definitely clear,” Buffy said, picking up Peter’s sword from the kitchen table. “The basement is the only dark space. If they’re here anywhere, that’s where they’ll be. If not, I guess we can try the factory, but that sounded pretty bogus to me.” Giles nodded his agreement.

“Do you have any training?” she asked Elaine. The woman just looked at her, confused and worried. “Do you know how to use a stake? A sword? A knife?” Buffy clarified impatiently.

“No,” Elaine admitted quietly.

“Then stay here and be ready to call an ambulance if we need one,” Buffy instructed. “Giles, come with me, but stay back. Let me do the killing. I need you to help Peter. Get him up into the light.”

Mr. Giles did as his wife said. There was an unstated sense that he had better. Elaine said nothing. These people were here to help her. She desperately needed their help. She was near to helpless without them. It was not her place nor was this any time to criticize their behavior in relation to one another. And of course she had no basis for judging the merits of whatever it was they were clearly so very deeply at odds about at the moment. But still, she found it unseemly and a sign of poor rearing for a wife behave so disrespectfully towards her husband in the presence of a total stranger, the near completion of the twentieth century notwithstanding. They certainly didn’t behave anything like Slayer and Watcher.

Buffy could feel Giles standing much too close at her back, literally breathing down her neck, as they descended to the lower level. He almost bumped into her when she paused half way down to flip on the lights. She’d have thought she’d have been too busy contemplating the possibly immanent battle to be annoyed with her husband, but somehow she was finding the time. She’d have told him to back off a little, but vampires have excellent hearing. If they were hiding anywhere below, even if they weren’t positioned to get a good view, they knew that one small and one relatively large human were descending the stairs. They didn’t also need to know which ones.

“Buffy,” Giles whispered, “what are you planning to do?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “To discuss my strategy in as much detail as possible so the demons will have a fighting chance,” she hissed with fierce, quiet sarcasm. But on initial inspection the basement appeared to be empty. See no evil, hear no evil, _sense_ no evil.

“There are no vampires here,” Buffy whispered. “Start looking for a body.”

“Why are we still whispering,” Giles whispered.

“Do you want to tell Elaine we’re looking for a body?” Buffy asked. Giles acknowledged the truth of the implied answer with a mildly apologetic sort of facial shrug. As Buffy surveyed the seemingly empty subterranean space, he walked to a nearby closet and took hold of the doorknob. He couldn’t turn it. He looked at Buffy worriedly.

“And why are we locking a closet inside the basement of a locked house?”she agreed with half resigned resentment and regret. She grabbed the knob herself, fully intending to force it, but it wouldn’t force. She couldn’t turn it over, push it in or pull it out, no matter how much pressure she applied. She was actually hurting her hand trying. “Something’s not right,” she said worriedly.

“Magic?” Giles asked.

“Maybe,” Buffy murmured.

“This knob doesn’t even have a lock,” Giles pointed out, examining it more closely, “not a physical one anyway.”Buffy frowned but said nothing. Her sword was so swiftly and suddenly in motion that Giles jumped back with a small, startled noise between a scream and a shout. The blade of the sword struck the top hinge of the door high above Buffy’s head. Metal skidded against metal creating white hot sparks. The blade of the sword was slightly dented at the point of contact, but the hinge was unharmed.

“So it’s not just the knob,” Giles mused.

“Duh!” said Buffy harshly rolling her eyes. “Thank you for _that_ priceless observation.”

“Well excuse me!” said Giles, superior as a saint and wounded as a martyr. “I am trying to help.”

“Well I’m trying to think,” Buffy groused. “I could do without the voice-over.”

Backing up to get a running start, Buffy thrust the point of her sword at the soft, wooden door with all her might. The sword reverberated, in danger of bending or breaking in half. Buffy cursed, equally from frustration and from the pain of impact in her shoulders as the door refused to give.

“You hear that?” Peter taunted Spike hoarsely. “She’s not giving up.”

“She’s not getting in either,” Spike pointed out coolly, but there was worry in his eyes. He took a step forward in contemplation of pouncing on Peter now after all. If he killed Buffy’s Watcher, even if he had to beat a quick retreat afterward, at least the last three days wouldn’t be a total bust.

Peter tensed, anticipating what was about to happen. Grunting with effort, he hefted his sword and shifted his weight from the wall to his feet. He stumbled back against the wall, fighting the temptation to plant his sword like a stave to steady himself. That was all the encouragement Spike needed. He sprang forward, growling thirstily. His moment was poorly chosen. For a fraction of a second Spike believed that the terrible pain in his bowels was some unexpected aggravation of his prior injury. Then he heard Harmony’s scream of terror and saw the sword withdrawn into the wall from whence it had come.

Buffy pulled her bloodied blade from the wall with a satisfying sense of having breached more than sheetrock. The stereophonic shrieks and moans that met her ears matched her sudden, unambiguous sense that there were two vampires very, very nearby. From the relative mixture of pain and fear in their cries, she judged that Spike was the one wounded. She plunged her sword into the wall again, slightly nearer the door, hoping Spike had stumbled backward only a step or two, but there was little enough change in his continuous stream of cursing to convince her she had not made contact and was not likely to again by the same method.

“Get me a hammer!” she shouted to Giles. “We’ve got to get this wall down!”

“Oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my- _God_!” Harmony wailed in distress. Spike had been split open like a melon. He was bleeding all over the floor. Not as badly as if his heart were beating, but pretty badly. His guts were spilling out everywhere. They trailed behind him as he stumbled back towards the tunnel. There was nothing she could do to help him. And damn little he could do to help her anymore she suddenly realized. _And_ the sight of him was extremely gross and unattractive. What the hell was she still doing here?

“Harmony!” Buffy shouted, “When I get through this wall, I’m going to break your face in fifty places! You’re going to have to wear a paper bag over your head!  Forever!”Harmony cast a frantic eye down the tunnel, torn between escape and... something else.

“If you leave me here, you worthless bitch,” Spike snarled, holding on to the wall with one hand to stay on his feet while he held himself together as best he could with the other, “I’m going to hunt you down and rip your face _off_!”

That was it. The thought was more than she could stand. Harmony fled, screaming in terror as Spike shouted and cursed and commanded her to return.

“Elaine!” Giles shouted, not finding a hammer or pry-bar or the jawbone of an ass near enough to hand. Based on his general knowledge of the dark arts, it seemed plausible that the owner of the door could open it, at least from the outside, and it seemed they were now facing only one wounded vampire. Though it be Spike, Buffy should be easily more than a match.

Mrs. Travers came stumbling down the stairs at full tilt. Suddenly, Spike left off cursing for growling and Peter cried out in agony. “You must open it!” Giles instructed her. Elaine grasped the knob and turned to no avail. Giles cursed. He had been almost sure! Buffy began vigorously stabbing at the sheetrock between the first two holes, trying to connect them and work towards a wider breach. She could do it, but it would take too long.

What was the bloody trick to opening that damned door? If the lady of the house couldn’t— Suddenly his thoughts slammed to a halt and turned around. Elaine had arrived in America a day late and three children short bearing a very modest amount of luggage. She had not come to Sunnydale to move into Peter’s house. She had come to move out. He grabbed her firmly by the shoulders and looked her steadily in the eye. There was no time to mince words. “Follow him where he goes or leave him to die!” He admonished her. “There _is_ no half way. If this is your door, open it!”

This time, when Elaine grasped the knob, it turned. She pulled the door open and would have rushed through had not Mr. Giles had the presence of mind to shove her roughly back out of the way before he too was pushed aside. Buffy spring through the doorway, sword at the ready, and had to spring back again to keep from cutting Peter in half as Spike threw him at her and skittered away down the tunnel, blood and guts trailing behind.

“Get him upstairs,” she instructed as she stepped over her fallen Watcher and plunged into the tunnel in hot pursuit.  Giles pressed his handkerchief firmly against Peter’s wounded neck as he half carried and half dragged his insensible bulk towards the stairs. Elaine already had her phone out, dialing 9-1-1.  

“Put your free hand under his arm,” he instructed her. “We’ll bear him up between us.” Elaine did as she was told, talking the whole while with the emergency dispatcher, answering her questions. They struggled up the stairs and laid Peter on the kitchen floor. The interior of the house was less and less sunny, but it mattered less now that the vampires were out of it.

“He has a pulse,” Elaine told the dispatched stoically, holding her fingers to his neck opposite the wound. “But it isn’t very strong or very steady.”

Mr. Giles took Elaine’s free hand in his and pressed it firmly against his bloody handkerchief at Peter’s neck. “Keep the pressure on,” he instructed, then stood and headed back down the basement stairs. When he heard the echo of distant gunfire from the tunnel below, he began to run.

Buffy flattened herself against the wall of the tunnel. The second bullet sailed past her. She heard the click of dry fire and Spike’s bitter cursing as he shuffled hurriedly away. He was definitely out, but she had no idea if or how fast he could reload or change weapons. Her left shoulder hurt like hell but her hand still flexed and gripped normally and it didn’t feel like there were any broken bones, just a tiny hole clean through to a not so tiny one. She was bleeding, but not the kind of bleeding you die from, at least not very quickly. To tell the truth, she felt like she could keep going for a good long while if she had to. And it would feel pretty damn good to kill the weakened, pitiful Spike with one hand. But this was probably one of those times when discretion was the better part of getting shot in the head coming around the next corner. Besides, she knew her wound would hurt a lot worse when the shock wore off.

She headed back towards Peter’s basement; low, quick and quiet. Seconds later, she ran smack into Giles. He was holding Peter’s sword, or rather, Spike’s sword Buffy guessed (down and to the side, thankfully) as he moved down the tunnel at a fairly brisk pace.

“Oh Buffy!” he gasped, with fierce, quiet emotion throwing his free arm around her and pulling her against his chest, “thank God you’re all right!”

“I’m not sure I’d go that far,” she cautioned gently as they headed back down the tunnel. “Spike shot me in the shoulder. I don’t think it’s that bad, but it’s bad enough.”

“You’re right,” Giles agreed grimly, examining her arm in the somewhat better light of the basement. “Looks like a small caliber round, through and through,” he concluded, helping her out of the shirt she was wearing open over her tank top and quickly fashioning it into a makeshift bandage.“Still, I think you ought to go to hospital, get some stitches, check for broken bones. Speaking of...” he noted in acknowledgment of the sound of approaching sirens.

“How’s Peter?” Buffy asked as they rushed up the stairs.

“Alive,” he told her grimly. “For now.” It was in a very low whisper indeed that he added, as they were entering the kitchen, “He doesn’t appear to have been fed, so he should be spared that, regardless.”

“Giles,” Buffy said, seriously, warmly, looking deep into his eyes as they waited for the EMTs to arrive at any second.

“Yes, my love,” he said, his voice all but breaking with emotion.

“This fight I just had with Spike made me realize something,” she told him, tears shining in her eyes.

“What is it, Darling?”

“I love Xander,” she said, her tears starting to fall, her voice filled with pain. All of the air suddenly disappeared from the room only to come rushing back as she added, “the way I love Willow and Mom and Dad and Grampa Wallace.” The sensation of relief didn’t last long. “He’s my _real_ friend. The kind of friend I can count on when I’m upset or in danger or... dead. I’m not going to lose him just because I married an _ax murderer_ who doesn’t trust me to keep my pants on!”

Giles tried unsuccessfully to utter a response, but he was too stunned by what she had said. He hardly knew if what he felt was rage or remorse. His goddess of mercy had turned his own confession against him, twisting it like a sword in his gut. And she wasn’t finished yet!

“So help me God,” Buffy continued with quiet, bitter intensity, “if you _ever_ lay a finger on one of my friends on the _excuse_ that you have to defend my ‘honor’ or whatever, I will break every bone in your body! It’s not Xander’s job to make me behave or tell me when it’s time to go home. If you have a problem with where I set my boundaries, talk to _me_. Threaten _me_. Murder _me_. This is between us.”

****

Spike lay curled in a ball inside a two foot pipe off the main sewer tunnel snarling at the rats that sniffed and threatened to nibble at his exposed entrails. He needed a surgeon and at least a gram of heroine. One of the down sides of being a vampire was that you couldn’t actually die from pain alone. In fact, you could take too fucking much of it without passing out. He’d have to stay here through one night and day at least he realized. He was in no shape to face the things that came out in Sunnydale at night. He’d give himself 24 hours to heal just enough to walk without oozing blood everywhere, Spike determined, then he could decide whether to seek the means of further healing or of easy death.

Of course, to heal even a little, he needed fresh blood. To that end, he put himself to the excruciating trouble of seizing and draining several rats. Usually, the blood of rodents disgusted him. Drinking such filth was beneath the dignity of a regal predator like himself. But as things stood he was grateful for whatever he could get. He didn’t feel like a regal predator any more. He had no dignity. Nothing was beneath him. He had met his match. More than. The Slayer had bested him. He was ready to give up. As soon as he was well enough to travel, if he chose not to die, he was leaving Sunnydale. This was Buffy’s Hellhole. She could have it.

Spike was startled from his thoughts be the sound of footsteps. His body suddenly taunt and silent, he reached out with his mind, groping in terror for a sense of the dreaded presence, but it was just a vampire. As she got a little closer, the smell of her confirmed it. Harmony! For an instant his heart leapt for joy (fool, traitor thing that it was). There was no bloody way in hell that girl was here to rescue his sorry ass. Other vampires didn’t get all soppy about ‘love’ the way Spike did, not even Drusilla unless it was over Angel. In his present condition, there was no way he could fight to feed or protect Harmony. She’d have no use for him. He was of no use to anyone anymore, including himself. He should just go ahead and die, as soon as possible. Maybe she’d at least be merciful enough to help him with that. If not, he could probably goad her into it. After all, after the way he had threatened and insulted her, she was bound to be mightily pissed off. This shouldn’t take long.

“Oh, there you are, Spiky!” Harmony beamed, cheerfully relieved, sticking her head in the pipe. “Come on out of there, baby. Let’s go home.”

****

For the second time in just over two weeks, Giles followed Buffy’s ambulance to the Emergency Room, this time with Peter at her side and Elaine at his. This time he’d remembered her blood type at least. “And what about your son’s?” they’d asked.

“You and Peter really do look amazingly alike,” Elaine said to fill some of the vast silence on that short yet excruciating drive. They’d chosen not to call any other family members until they had something like an actual prognosis to report. They certainly had no desire to talk about what they’d gleaned with regard to the state of their respective marriages.

“Yes, well, deep roots in a shallow gene pool, I suppose,” Giles quipped with a convincing show of offhandedness, not letting Elaine know that this was one more thing he didn’t want to discuss. Truthfully, it was a mystery to him why the Watching families and especially the dynasties of the Inner Council should be as nearly endogamous was they were given that only one Watcher parent or grandparent was required to be eligible for enrollment. However, it was fortunate in this case as it tended to obscure the real relationships involved. While there had come to be a fair bit of diversity among the Outer Council in the last century or so, one might as well remark on the stunning resemblance between two sheep as the sons of two Equals.

The difference in the reception Giles received in the ER was night and day from what it had been three weeks earlier. A few of the staff were a little chilly towards him, but no one got in his way. He had been blessed by God and the State of Arizona. He was wrapped in the mantle of ‘patient’s next of kin.’ This was on his watch.

“You really are a very lucky young woman,” Dr. Heigle remarked twenty minutes later as he stitched up Buffy’s exit wound.

“Most people say he’s the lucky one,” Buffy teased more or less good-naturedly, cocking her head in Giles’ direction.

“I suppose they’re right about that,” Giles admitted, embarrassed. She had more or less accepted his fervent apologies, but she was apparently still in the mood to needle him a little bit. He was trying to be gracious about it, but few things have a greater tendency to cause resentment than the realization that one has behaved badly. Not that he hadn’t meant every single word he had said to Xander and still didn’t. But Buffy had been correct to point out that it was beyond the bounds of civilized conduct to have said so (at least so directly) and that it was an insult to her to think that such warnings could ever be truly necessary. As for the lengths she’d gone to in the process of pointing out...

The Doctor smiled. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be a competition,” he said. “An inch to the right and that bullet would have gone straight through your heart, an inch to the left and it would have shattered your shoulder socket. You could have lost the arm. As it is, you’ll be sleeping in your own bed tonight. Your friend’s pretty lucky too actually. Shot twice and all it did was nick the artery in his neck. He’ll be going home tomorrow. A couple more minutes and it might have been a different story. Good day to buy that lottery ticket.”

“I think I’ll wait until I can go two days in a row without being arrested or rushed to the hospital,” Buffy answered dryly. Dr. Heigle smiled and shrugged as if to say that was one way to look at it though probably not the best way.

“How are Peter and Elaine doing, really,” Buffy asked as they made their way back toward the waiting area and the exit beyond.

“It’s... hard to say,” Giles admitted. “We didn’t talk about it. The police didn’t bother them long at least after I’d assured them that you and I both got a very good look and didn’t recognize the shooter. Of course, I had to tell them at least a dozen times that it wasn’t Xander, though my description of Spike was nothing like him of course.”

He paused and took a deep breath, looking Buffy in the eyes. “How are _we_ doing,” he asked, “really?”

Buffy shrugged, “you’ll be sleeping in your own bed tonight,” she assured him mock casually. Smiling she added, “don’t expect to sleep that much. All of this threatening and sword slinging and _almost_ killing things makes me really, really want to finish something.”

“You can finish me off every day of the week and twice on Sunday,” Giles assured her, breathing the words into her hair overcome as much by gratitude as by passion. Once again she really had completely for given him for being an absolute and total ass.

“Oh, I can do better than _that_ ,” Buffy whispered against his throat. She leaned her head on his chest and, half closing her eyes, slipped her right hand into the back pocket of his tweed pants and squeezed his butt. “I just need to get my hands on your sword.”

“Mmmm,” he murmured, his senses so filled with her that he was hardly aware of his surroundings, “you can have my ‘sword’, and you know exactly where you’re going to get it too. I’m going to bury it so deep in your tight, hot—”

“Mom!” Buffy exclaimed, startled, pulling her hand out of his pocket then a slightly different kind of shocked, “and Dad. Hi, Mom and Dad,” she added pointedly.

“Erm, yes,” Giles murmured mortified, not quite knowing where to put his own hands, not entirely sure where they had been up to now as opposed to where he’d merely been dreaming of putting them, “how lovely to see you both. Not that there was any real need to come down here, just a flesh wound you know. I believe I did mention that on the phone.”

“You call and tell me my daughter’s been shot,” Hank retorted indignantly, “while I happen to be in town no less. What do you think I’m going to do? Turn around and go home?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “He was raised by wolves,” she explained almost half seriously and more than half apologetically. “These are called parents,” she told Giles facetiously, “they tend to show up when you get shot or stabbed or something. I really am fine, though,” she explained to Hank, “and I don’t want to talk about it here. Also, I have to eat like now or I might be sick and then they’ll want to keep me for ‘observation.’”

“I want to know who shot my daughter!” Hank demanded, loudly enough to turn heads, “and I don’t want to hear any of this ‘we saw him but we didn’t recognize him’ crap either!”

“Maybe we _should_ talk about this somewhere else,” Joyce suggested.

They walked over to the coffee shop across the street from the hospital on the stated theory that it would be faster than cooking at home. Besides, although no one said it, they needed to be on neutral territory.

“What the hell is this about?” Hank demanded a little more quietly as soon as they were outside. “Who did this to you?”

Buffy felt bad about lying to her father when he was obviously really worried about her, but she knew he couldn’t handle the truth and even if he could, Giles couldn’t handle having him know enough to stick his nose in their business effectively. “It was just... a thing with a friend—or ex-friend, or... ex-something anyway—of Angel’s, but I really think I’ve got it straightened out now and it’s not something I would love for the police to know about, okay?”

“Are you hearing this?” Hank demanded of Giles and Joyce at once. “People don’t _shoot_ you over things that are ‘straightened out,’” he added to Buffy before anyone could answer. “And who the hell is this Travers guy, anyway? Another ‘friend’ you’ve been ‘hanging out’ with after all of three weeks of marriage?”

“He’s actually a friend of _mine_ ,” Giles informed him tensely, “a... distant relative actually, and his wife and I were both there with them, not that that’s any of your business. Business being the operative word regarding... all of this, if you must know,” Giles added, shockingly convincingly, “specifically Angel’s business, which I believe we have finally convinced these... ‘people’ we are not a part of.”

Joyce and Buffy exchanged a look, not sure they wanted to let Hank think Buffy had been involved in drugs or some other type of organized crime with Angel, which was what he seemed to be implying. Then again, it was hard to think of a better explanation for why Buffy didn’t want the police to know who had shot her.

“You’re not huh?” Hank asked skeptically, dropping his voice just a little as they entered the restaurant. “That’s why _your_... friends and family keep getting shot and/or killed? Is this the kind of life we can expect our daughter to lead as long as she’s with you?” Joyce shot her ex-husband a look, very unpleased to be included in on his interrogation of Buffy’s husband. “What?” he demanded, but there wasn’t really a good answer to make. From his point of view, her lack of outrage was extraordinary. There was no explaining that, from what she’d seen, Buffy could handle a little being shot once in a while.

“Look,” Buffy said, coming to both their rescue as they made their way to a table, “Giles didn’t get me involved with Angel; it was the other way round. He’s never done anything throughout all of this but try to protect me.”

“So you’re just going to let these people get away with shooting my daughter and your... friend?” Hank demanded, _still_ addressing Giles rather than Buffy.

“And pray God we’ve seen the last of them,” Giles affirmed.

“Dad, these are not regular people we’re talking about here,” Buffy added truthfully. “No court can touch these people. You just have to... survive them, like a disease or something. Cancer of the social history. That’s what I get for getting mixed up with Angel in the first place. I’m just glad we’ve finally seen the last of _him_.”

****

Harmony stamped her foot, nearing actual tears of frustration. Spike groaned miserably in her arms. The lock wasn’t the problem. The door wasn’t the problem. The key turned. The knob turned. The door opened. But Harmony couldn’t go in. It was the same as with the tunnel. But why? Nobody lived there. The barrier wasn’t supposed to work if nobody lived there.

Motion stirred in the darkness on the other side of the threshold. A lamp was turned on. A fairly familiar young man occupied the comfortable living room chair that was reserved for Spike, just sitting there like he owned the place. Exactly like.

“Your kind aren’t welcome here.” Angel said with quiet resolve.

“That’s right,” said Mr. Edwards, walking out of the bedroom with a wide smile on his face. “Nobody allowed in here but us humans.”

 


	13. The Dark Places of the Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Buffy and Giles arrive in London and prepare to face the judgment of the Council, Faith and Doug find themselves dealing with quite a different ancient and mysterious Order. Meanwhile, back in Sunnydale, a lot of people's lives are taking dark and surprising turns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The First Chapter of Part III: Where the Heart Is

 London, U.K., April 14, 1998

 

The dark cold river lay like a lazy snake on the breast of the ancient city, not even bothering to wind or twist too much at this point, more or less a straight arrow from west to east, coiling or sagging just a little at either end of the vast urban expanse, which was now rushing up at the plane in wide, steep circles eclipsing the river from view as it swallowed them whole. The sky was deep gray, the city dark. Even here on the outskirts, buildings crowded together as if leaning on one another for support. It was nothing like Los Angeles. They might have landed on another planet. A much older one. A world where April didn’t know if it was yet spring or still winter. A world where day surrendered at the first rumor of approaching night. Buffy shivered a little, as if the cold outside had somehow gotten inside. “Hey,” she whispered, nudging her husband in the ribs, “the Eagle has landed, wake up.”

“’S’morning?” he muttered, momentarily disoriented as to time and place. It was too complicated a question, and mostly beside the point.

“We’re landing,” she tried again. “In London. Carefully retrieve your items from the overhead bins as contents may have shifted in flight.”

Giles opened his eyes and smiled a little. “Sorry,” he apologized, giving her hand a little squeeze as he stood into the aisle to retrieve their luggage. “I must have drifted off for a bit.”

“Try eight hours,” Buffy informed him dryly. “Which means you’ll be up all night. It’s almost four in the afternoon here. Meanwhile I feel like I’ve done one of those all-night-waiting-for-a-grave-that-won’t-open deals, like I’m restless and exhausted at the same time? Is that jetlag?”

“That and the way I’m going to feel in about fifteen hours when everyone else, including you, is ready to get up,” Giles confirmed resignedly. “I’ve had it both ways. Never can seem to time it just right. Then again,” he added grimly, “by the time we’ve gotten through passport control, we may both be ready to crawl in bed for a year.”

“So I shouldn’t tell them I’m planning on working under the table as a hotel maid by day and an ‘escort’ by night to send money back home to my starving family in darkest California?” Buffy teased, with something between ironic mock-cheerfulness and cheerful mock-irony.

Giles smiled appreciatively, affection amplifying his mild amusement. “Not you, me,” he clarified tossing her a sweater from her carry-on without being asked. He was thoughtful like that. “They’re even less sure I was born in this country than I am,” he explained.“Of course, they’ve renewed my passport twice since finding that out, but nevertheless, we always have to chat about it. Partly because the strings that are being pulled are so far over their heads that they don’t know the whys or the wherefores. That upsets people who are used to having a little authority.”

When everything was said and done; however, it was said and done in less than an hour, most of which was spent standing in line. There was some staring and whispering over Giles’ documents, a few questions about what Buffy was up to and a little understated commentary on their relationship, but that was it. After taking a minute to assure Joyce, or rather her answering machine, that they were not lying at the bottom of the North Atlantic, they headed for the baggage claim, but they hadn’t gone far when a smartly dressed but otherwise average looking middle aged man with dark, thinning hair called out to Giles, “Rupert? Rupert, old man, is that you?” They both laughed as they recognized one another.

“‘Old man’ indeed!” Giles grinned, as they shook hands and clapped each other on the back as though they might have hugged if they had been even a little less manly or less English. “I hope to God I don’t look as old to you as you do to me! What’s it been, ten years?”

“Eleven,” Robson said wonderingly. “And just you wait another four or five years! I swear, turning fifty is like having a car that’s no longer under warranty. All the bits start falling apart at once; it’s horrifying. But more importantly...” he turned to Buffy (who was looking at him more than a little uncomfortably) and held out his hand.

“Ah yes, where are my manners,” Giles apologized.

“I’ve been wondering that, actually,” Buffy said taking Robson’s hand warily, “I’m not shaking hands with the captain of the Thought Police, am I?”

Both Watchers ‘coughed’ a little at that remark but recovered quickly. “Phillip Robson,” Giles said, a bit more formally, “I’d like you to meet my wife, Buffy Summers-Giles. Buffy, Phillip.”

“Delighted,” Robson said sounding... not _dis_ pleased exactly, but... uneasy. He looked at Buffy as though everything about her were too unusual to form an opinion on. She had to consciously restrain herself from running a self conscious hand over the very slight convexity of her abdomen even though she knew it was invisible beneath her sweater.

“Okay, now try it once more with even less feeling,” the girl joked nervously, Robson blinked at her, totally at a loss. She wasn’t precisely rude, but she wasn’t polite either. It was like being addressed by someone outside of the context of everyday reality to whom such distinctions were meaningless. The combination of innocent bluntness and knowing irony was disorienting. She was a stranger in the world, a babe in a basket, but she seemed to know that the river was deeper than she knew.

“Yes, well,” Giles was saying crisply, hurriedly, trying to move the conversation along to a more comfortable place, “It was terribly thoughtful of you to come and meet us. Let’s go and collect our baggage shall we, then we’ll pop in somewhere for a bit of break—erm... something and a nice cup of tea and catch up.”

Buffy had the sense that she was being shushed, so she did shush, but she had no idea why. Was she supposed to be pretending they didn’t know why they were here? That they weren’t in danger? That she really thought everyone was ‘delighted’ to meet her? It annoyed her more than a little, but probably mostly because she was tired, Buffy told herself, suppressing a yawn. She had now been up for twenty-six hours that had included both a full day of school and a full ‘night’ of travel. There’d been no way around that. The nine remaining school days between now and the end of the Council Meeting would put Buffy at fourteen unexcused absences for the semester as it was. Twelve or more meant being suspended for a week (a fairly ironic punishment in Buffy’s book) and therefore having to take incompletes for most of her classes and make them up in summer school. Fifteen would have meant being expelled for the rest of the school year, including summer school, and having to repeat the eleventh grade.

“Where are you staying?” Robson asked as Giles scanned the conveyer belt for their bags.

“With _Andrew_ ,” he answered distastefully as he wrestled the first of several large suitcase to the floor.

“Yes...” Robson replied, the very slightest hint of accusation creeping into his tone unbidden, “he’s certainly... coming around, isn’t he?” The girl opened her mouth as if to respond, looking worriedly at her husband. At his warning look she closed it again. It was more than enough to confirm that Rupert had indeed included his young bride in on his strategy to defeat the Recommendations. From their point of view, Robson supposed, it only made sense; but the idea of the Slayer taking an active part in Council politics, in the intrigues of Watcher against Watcher, made him uneasy to say the least.

“I suppose he’s finally realized that casting the situation in the best possible light is all he can do to save face,” Rupert gabbled blandly, hardly bothering to disguise the fact that he was lying. He was not a fool, nor did he take Phillip for one. He must have known that his highly placed friend supposed he’d done _something_ to force the elder Mr. Giles into line and that it was nothing of which he would approve. Making believe that Andrew had changed his stance out of a general sense of social obligation rather than at the point of a sword was the _polite_ thing to do. It made the delicate political game that they were playing that much easier for both of them.

The Slayer, who was perhaps a shade less subtle in her political thought, was eying both men uneasily, clearly wondering if Robson was gleaning any information from her husband that could hurt their cause. Robson tried to sooth her with idly friendly conversation, offering to carry her bags, which made her laugh at least. “I think you’d be better off grabbing one of Giles’,” she yawned, indicating her clearly struggling husband with a casual wave of a hand that happened to be holding a suitcase in which she could have curled up quite comfortably. “I swear to God,” she added, smiling affectionately, “when it comes to packing he’s almost as much of a girl as I am.”

“I’ll manage, thanks,” Giles informed them both a tad curtly before Robson could actually offer to relieve him of his carry-on at least.

Buffy laughed again. “You’re cute when you get all ruffled up,” she said, kissing him in a way that more than made up for the slight sting of indignity that accompanied her gentle confiscation of the larger of his two bags, which she managed quite handily along with her own enormous case as well as the small carry-on and large purse she had slung over either shoulder.

It was a beautiful kiss. They radiated love. For a moment Robson found himself feeling a little jealous, not so much of Rupert as of the two of them. What they had together was so much fresher and more vibrantly alive than what was left of his own marriage. He laughed a little at himself. Imagine envying these refugees from romantic disaster! ‘Lord, what fools these mortals be!’ He should be thanking God for his stable, quiet family life, for his fine sons and daughters who were men and women of distinction and character, for his personal and professional success, for his well earned reputation both within the secret world of the Council and without. He did thank God, for all these things. But still he envied them.

At the same time, Robson felt protective of them in a way he hadn’t previously. As he continued to watch them together, enveloped in their precarious, embattled joy, he thought of Rupert as he had first known him: an eager, earnest little school boy trying so very, very hard to be perfect, to squelch the very parts of himself that made him worth knowing at all. He’d been a victim already, though neither boy had known how or why. Rupert had been born on the altar to which the Council sacrificed every imaginable human Good in the name of battling Evil. And so he struggled, not knowing who or what he struggled against, straining alternately to be good and to be happy, seldom managing both and often neither, turning for relief again and again to the very source of his misery, to the Council. Something solidified in Robson’s mind, a conviction, a certainty. To ‘forgive’ Rupert and his Slayer their indiscretion, to bless their love, to leave them in peace was not mere expediency or even mercy; it was pure and simple justice. After all they had given willingly and unwillingly, in the face of all they stood ready to give, they deserved their slender, fleeting chance at happiness.

Robson felt a thrill of nauseating horror. He knew he had to do more than privately advise those few on the Outer Council who’s primary loyalty was to him to vote against the Recommendations. He had to take up the cause openly, to challenge Julian for the Hippolyton votes, to challenge his peers in the Inner Council to Resend the Recommendation to Strike at the very least. He also knew very well the lines he would be crossing, the risks he would be taking in doing so. Yet, the danger of ostracizian, of lost prestige, of ruptured relationships strengthened rather than weakened his growing resolve. He now knew what was the Right thing to do. To ignore that knowledge out of any concern personal to himself would be nothing but purest cowardice. To try to justify the same with reference to Rupert’s lack of blamelessness in the affair would be dishonest cowardice.

Robson’s horror was followed by a sense of relief. Suddenly, all of the confusion of contradictory principals and conflicting loyalties that he had felt since learning of Rupert’s predicament melted away. There _was_ no contradiction between doing right by his old friend and doing his duty as a Watcher. After all, what exactly was the _point_ of fighting the Forces of Darkness if not to make space in this sorry world for human beings to love one another and be happy?

****

“Are you sure you’ve packed everything?” Peter asked, “I think I saw a few of your clothes in the laundry room earlier.”

“Yes, Darling,” Elaine assured him, reminding herself for the millionth time that he was only trying to be helpful, “I’ve packed everything.”After all, it was she, not he who was adamantly opposed to bringing her children to this... place. Her own indefinite return to London was the next logical, indeed almost inevitable, step. There really was no sense in keeping anything here that she could use and he couldn’t. Still, he didn’t have to be quite so methodical about it. It was almost as if he wanted to remove every trace of her from his home. As though he wished to pretend she had never been there at all. As though he wished they were not married. Elaine silently chided herself for being paranoid. Peter wasn’t showing any other signs of displeasure with her. Why should she imagine that he was displeased? He was just being his usual thorough self, that was all. He was just being practical.

“Here,” Peter said, handing her a damp barrette. “You left this on the sink.”

 ****

“This is what you wanted to show me?” Xander asked doubtfully, looking up from the two squeaking, squirming cages teaming with tiny rats into Willow’s miserable face and back down again. After more than two weeks of ‘I’m too busy to talk right now,’ and ‘Today is not a good day,’ finally Willow had reached out to him, had called and asked him to come to her house before school, meaning his school, because she wasn’t bothering to go today. He’d assumed she wanted to say good bye, to hang out one last time before getting locked up for the rest of the spring and half of the summer, or maybe to make sure he knew everything he needed to know to check in on Amy and the house. He hadn’t expected this... situation.

“Where did they come from?” he asked stupidly. Willow gave him a look. Of the half of the brood that were in Amy’s cage, most were currently nursing. “Well... I mean, I know where they _came_ from,” he admitted sheepishly. “But... I mean... did she get out... or....” Willow looked down at the little rats, whining miserably. Three of them were kind of a gray-brown, like their mother. Nine of the other ten were spread across the spectrum of what could plausibly be called ‘agouti’, the perfectly normal and natural wild rat coloring that you wouldn’t _necessarily_ call ‘red’ per se. The thirteenth rat, the little scrawny one, looked like a new copper penny. “Oh Christ!” Xander whispered. “I mean... they're not—You’re not—?”

Willow nodded miserably. “Don’t tell Oz!” she blurted suddenly, giving him a pitiful, desperate, pleading look. “Don’t tell anyone. Nobody knows, not even Buffy.”

“Oh wow,” Xander gasped again, still stunned. The situation was more than one kind of impossible, but there it was. Rat’s. Willow’s rats. Willow’s and Amy’s rats. Lots of them.

“You have to take care of them,” she went on earnestly, distraught. “Don’t let anyone help you. No one else has a key to the house. We’ll have to put them all back in Amy’s cage for a couple of weeks until they’re ready to wean,” she fretted, wringing her hands. “I’ve been rotating them every few hours, but you won’t have time to do that every day. Try to make sure they let Ira—the little red one—get something to eat. Don’t let them run out of food and water. Don’t let them get loose in the house, especially not in the room with Mom. And...” a look of painful embarrassment crumpled Willows face, “don’t let them breed,” she murmured. “You have to separate the boys from the girls at five weeks. That why I got two cages.”

Xander felt a lightheaded, unreal sense of calm-in-the-face-of-something-beyond-the-ability-to-be-addressed-by-panic. Willow appeared near tears of guilty anxiety, painfully in fear of judgment. “Hey, don’t sweat it,” he assured her with his best false bravado. “I’m on the job.”

Willow gave him a sideways, skeptical look, but mumbled only, “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Xander reiterated, as if there was really nothing wrong at all. “I need something to do most mornings anyway, now that I finally finished all my community service, you know, until I can get another job.” Mr. Garth at the Quick Mart had hated to let Xander go on account of his curfew after he’d made such quick work of the shoplifting problem, but day shift jobs were in high demand, even at the lower rate of pay, and his afternoon classes started well before that shift normally ended. The best he’d been able to offer him was eighteen hours a week, six to three Saturday and Sunday. At eight dollars an hour, he was barely able to pay the rent his parents had suddenly decided to charge him for the ‘privilege’ of sleeping in their basement, buy the gas he needed to get back and forth to Fondren every day, and still have money for his fine payments and probation fees. Saving money was out of the question; not that he was sure what he was saving it for anymore. Willow would have offered to pay him something for rat sitting, but that would only have reminded him of how much she’d already paid for his bail.

Xander babbled for a while, making half a dozen jokes about the horrible circumstances of both of their lives, which might or might not have been funny at a sufficient emotional distance. Willow laughed dutifully and she hoped convincingly without listening. “Anyway,” he said after a while, “enough about all that. The real question is: What are we going to do today to really, really enjoy ourselves? Ice cream brunch at Ben and Jerry’s? Go to the zoo and taunt the hyenas? Disguise ourselves as Snyder and Garrett Chase and rob a bank with a good security camera?” Willow smiled a little more genuinely. “Okay, _Technically_ , that might involve calling on the Forces of Darkness,” Xander mock cajoled, “but, it’s for a good cause.” He prized a genuine laugh from her at last, to his obvious relief and satisfaction.

“Did anyone ever tell you what a bad influence you are?” Willow teased back, feeling a little better for a moment in spite of everything.

Xander shrugged, “Well I am a delinquent juvenile,” he agreed cheerfully. “Which doesn’t pay very well but the hours are great. Seriously,” he added. “Let’s go get a hamburger or something, my treat. The sky’s the limit. Up to twelve dollars and forty-three cents.”

“It would be nice to get out of the house,” Willow admitted hesitantly, though she was far from sure it would be. She didn’t tell him she hadn’t bothered to go to school (or anywhere else) yesterday or Friday either, that except for two wearing trips to Fondren to put Oz down for his three day nap and to wake him up again she hadn’t left the house in four days, that she had lied about going to her uncle’s Passover dinner to get out of keeping watch with the Osborne women, their eyes crawling over her in silent, imaginary accusation, that she’d only made herself take a shower this morning because he was coming over, that it was the first time in over a week she had washed and put on clean clothes for real and not with a glamour.

No one needed to know all of that. Everyone had their own troubles to deal with, most of them _not_ of their own making as most of hers were. Now was not the time to burden Xander with her melodramatic wallowing in self-pity. He was a better friend that she deserved just for still _wanting_ to spend the day with her and enjoy her company after the way she’d avoided him lately. Considering what she was asking him to do for her over the next seventy-two days and how cool he was being about it, it didn’t seem fair to turn him away yet again. She had just forty-eight hours of freedom left, Willow chided herself. It would be wrong, self-indulgent, not to at least _try_ to enjoy it.

****

While Robson treated Buffy and Giles to what was either a very early dinner a very, very late lunch or breakfast in a parallel dimension; he shared a decade’s worth of news about his children (their degrees, their marriages, _their_ children) and tried to entertain Buffy with his memories of Rupert at school and University, all against his old friend’s playful protests. “As _I_ recall,” Rupert corrected him at one point with cheerful stridency, “ _You_ were the one who said, ‘To hell with old Dinwiddie; let’s go anyhow.’”

“Yes,” Robson cheerfully admitted, “but whose idea was it to stop in at _Saint Agatha’s_ on the way back?” To Giles’ joyful embarrassment, Robson described the Catholic girl’s school with which he said the Walsington School as a whole had been having ‘a mad and passionate affair since the days of the reformation’. Listening to them hint about sex, reminisce about drugs and rhapsodize about Rock-n-Roll, Buffy could almost have believed she’d fallen into a parallel dimension. Everything around her was almost normal but not quite from the whizzing of modern cars along the left side of ancient cobbled streets that cried out for the clatter of hooves to the diet coke can that looked alright but felt all wrong as her hand slipped fractionally too far around it. The overall sense was too real and not real enough, as if she walked in a world where she could neither defy gravity nor entirely rely on it.

She felt the same way about this ‘friend’ of her husband’s whom she knew to be one of the mysterious and powerful Council who held their lives in balance. He had voted to fire Giles, though not to take him away from her, apparently as much to try to improve his family’s power position within the Council as to spare them that deadly separation. Now he was acting as though nothing but time and distance had ever come between him and his old school chum. Buffy wanted to ask him, to demand of him, what he was going to do to stop the freight train that was speeding at them while they all stood on the tracks making polite small talk. But this was Giles’ world, not hers. She followed his lead hoping that no matter how wrong it felt to her, all of this waiting and talking was indeed the right thing to do, that in this alien dimension it would have the desired results.

“Can you still play ‘The End’ Robson asked?” at length.

Giles literally shuttered. The playful mood of their reunion was in sudden and terrible danger. “Not even on the stereo,” he said, _trying_ to laugh. How could he possibly explain, if Robson somehow did not yet understand, how much he was holding onto, how much he _had_ to hold on to, that he could never have done justice to such a piece without letting go? “Well, but then I suppose most of us, we old rock-n-rollers, have forgotten half the music we ever knew,” he said, trying harder still to be amused.

“Speak for yourself,” Robson rejoined, “ _I_ can still play the whole first side of Disraeli Gears!” And with that the laughs were more or less back on track. For the two men anyway. “You know what we should do!” Robson declared, as if struck by sudden inspiration. Buffy’s heart leapt to attention and sat up, taunt, listening to hear a bit of strategy at last. “We should round up the old gang, get together for a drink tomorrow night.” Buffy’s heart sank back down to its gloomy ground state, maybe even a little lower.

“Yes!” Giles agreed, in a why-didn’t-I-think-of-that sort of way, as if the idea were somehow useful in their current circumstances. Buffy went on smiling along as best she could but she wanted to be _doing_ something. Of course, she supposed, when it was votes you were after, catching up with old friends, depending on who they were, might actually count as doing something, but it didn’t feel like doing something. Buffy was a Slayer in a tight corner, cool as she was trying to be about it, she was ready to bust some heads.

Eventually, inevitably, as gray day gave way to grayer evening, they pulled into the cobbled drive before the highly respectable if not terribly fashionable block of flats that contained the London residence of Andrew Giles. The little party became suddenly grim. All pretense of cheerfulness was cast aside. “This is too normal,” Buffy said. “I feel like there should be a dark forbidding tower on the edge of a stagnant lake.”

Giles laughed, though his old friend Robson was looking uneasy again. “This is only his flat in town he reminded her. He’s got three other houses. I’m sure we could come up with something suitably Gothic. Thinking of real estate," he added, brightening a little, "you and I have our own flat in Bath, which I suppose we ought to at least take a look at while we’re over here.”

“Ah, yes,” said Robson as he opened the trunk for the doorman, who’d come out with a little dolly to gather their baggage. “You ended up with Miss Margaret’s old place didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Giles confirmed. “Helena’s mother,” he added for Buffy’s benefit. “Helena said she hardly thought Andrew needed two houses in the same city and I ought to have something in case he disinherited me. I _believed_ she was joking at the time, but then of course, she knew him better than I.”

“Yes, well,” Robson said, clearly uncomfortable with the fact that Giles was referencing the unpleasant reality of his relationship with his father so directly yet again, “at any rate I’d best be getting along home. Do give Mr. Giles my regards. I’ll call you and let you know about tomorrow night. Congratulations again,” he added to Buffy taking her hand briefly, “It was lovely to meet you.”

“Yeah,” said Buffy without audible sarcasm, “lovely.”

****

The late morning sun shimmered brilliantly on the crystal blue waters of the vast Pacific. A seagull screeched in the distance as it wheeled and turned it’s haphazard aerobatics lazily against an indifferent sky. Four eyes watched the bird with casual interest. Four legs dangled, childlike, over the side of the fishing pier three feet above the water. Two right hands crumbled bits of bread from a plastic sack and threw them out onto the water where they bobbed aimlessly, waiting for fish or birds that didn’t come. “Okay,” Xander declared with comically excessive resignation, “that’s it. We are officially the two boringest people on Earth.”

Willow turned her head to look at him, slightly wounded. “Really?” she whined. “I think this is nice. Don’t you think this is nice? It’s... peaceful.”

“It’s so peaceful I’m about to fall asleep,” Xander complained good-naturedly. “Come on Wil, let’s _do_ something. I have to leave for Fondren in less than two hours.”

“Two hours is a long time,” Willow argued, moving slightly closer to him, “and the water is so blue. And I like being here. With you.” There was something about her proximity, the look in her eyes, the way her lip trembled when she spoke that made Xander suddenly want to kiss her. Willow was actually a very beautiful girl, when you really looked at her. Xander straightened and backed up a little, startled. Turning to face the ocean again, he threw a whole fistful of breadcrumbs over-handed several years out into the great deep.

“What?” said Willow somewhere between worried and cranky, putting her hand on his shoulder. The moment had passed. She was his old pal again, the same as ever.

“Say,” said Xander. “I have a neat idea. Let’s go see Oz.” Willow gave him a doubtful look. “No it’ll be great,” he assured her. “I mean me and Oz haven’t had a chance to hang out ever since—”

“—you beat him half to death?”

“Yeah, that. But I mean he’s doing better now, right? And he told you there’s no hard feelings. Plus you guys can hang out while I’m at school, have a little ‘private time’? Huh? You know what I’m sayin’ And then I can give you a ride home and press you for details like an ill mannered cad.”

“Xander!” Willow scolded, pushing him playfully, clearly not as disapproving as she pretended to be. He pushed her back. They struggled in jest, giggling and slapping each other’s hands. Willow shoved Xander a little too hard. He teetered and fell into the water, maybe not a hundred percent by accident. As he fell, he grabbed a hold of Willow and pulled her in after him, entirely on purpose.

She swam from him, under the pier, and he pursued her, laughing and splashing. He caught up with her in the shallow water where they had to slump to keep from banging their heads on the pier above. Suddenly, they were racing to be the first ashore. Their legs got tangled up. They fell. She landed on top of him in the wet sand.

“Are you alright?” Willow asked. Willow who was his best friend and sometimes literally one of the guys but who at that moment was also a very beautiful woman, her wet clothes clinging to her shapely body, which was pressed heavily against him, her eyes brimming with love and concern. “Xander?”

He kissed her. She kissed him back. They kissed. They were kissing. He was kissing Willow. It felt good. Kind of panicky but good. And then they were more-than-kissing, because his hands were on her breasts, touching them through her extremely wet and insubstantial feeling clothes. And her hands were, oh-my-God where her hands were! Oh yeah, this was definitely more-than-kissing, this was somewhere between making out and—Xander’s pants were unzipped. He wasn’t exactly for sure how they had gotten unzipped, he wasn’t exactly for sure how he felt about it, but his dick was as hard as a rock and Willow was holding it in her hands, rubbing it, caressing it.

He reached out and grabbed the back of her head, pulling her mouth to his, kissing her some more, moving his hands from the back of her head, down her back to her butt, which felt damn good in his hands, almost as good as her hands on his cock felt. Willow’s hands. Willow’s butt. There was some reason why that wasn’t right. Xander tried to remember what it was. Cordelia! The answer came to him suddenly, but he stopped himself from calling it out loud. Cordelia wasn’t here. Buffy wasn’t here. They didn’t want to be here. Willow did. She always had. “I’m such an idiot,” he mumbled against her neck as he slid his hands under her wet shirt. “I love you! You're awesome!”

Willow shifted position, raising up a little way above him. For a moment he thought she was disengaging, but that was the opposite of what was happening. She knelt over him on all fours, her knees in the sand between his legs, her palms in the sand on either side of his ribcage, and kissed the head of his erect penis. She ran her tongue along the edge of its mushroom-like cap as she took more and more of it into her mouth. Xander moaned with pleasure and disbelief. It was all too unreal. ‘Hey there, Wil, old buddy. You remember that time you sucked my dick under the pier? That was awesome!’ It was awesome. She was awesome. This was sex! Sex with Willow! Sex with Willow was awesome!

“I have a condom in my wallet,” he gasped between ragged breaths. “I want to do it, you know, put it in.”

Willow raised her head from his crotch and nodded. Part of him was sorry he’d said anything to make her stop, but he wasn’t expecting to be sorry for long. She reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and reached inside. “This thing isn’t as old as the crease in the wallet is it?” She asked doubtfully, brow furrowed in a very Willowish way.

“Yeah?” he admitted sheepishly. The Mood was waning a little. She was acting too much like her normal, cautious self. And now he was remembering the other half of the reason why they weren’t supposed to be doing this. Oz. Of course he’d pretty much already earned his worst friend in the world award there, but still.... Willow wore the expression of someone doing math in her head. The Mood was waning more than a little, along with the outward visible sign of the same. His heartbeat slowed to near normal. “We should stop,” he said aloud.

“No, we don’t have to,” Willow argued earnestly. “I probably ovulated like a week and a half ago so...”

“Oh!” Xander groaned, his expression extremely pained, “Call it. Time of death...” he glanced at his watch. “Mood was killed at exactly 10:23 a.m.” The sorry-but-not-surprised way she looked at him confirmed that it was true. He tucked his mostly deflated genitals back into his wet underpants and zipped his fly.

Willow turned, grabbed a hold of the pier and thrust herself out from under it. She strode rapidly up the beach towards the car. Was she angry or just embarrassed? Xander felt his pockets confirming a vague memory that, although he had driven Sheila’s car, Willow had kept the keys. He lengthened his stride suddenly afraid that on top of everything else he was about to spend the next hour walking home in wet clothes with sand in his underwear.

He caught up to her two thirds of the way to the car. She was crying, really crying, keening and sobbing. He tried to put a hand on her shoulder, to get her to slow, to stop, to talk to him. “I’m sorry!” he half shouted, not sure if he meant for starting or stopping.

Willow shrugged him off and walked around to the driver’s side to get behind the wheel. “I should _know_ better!” she wailed, not really addressing him at all. He climbed into the passenger seat while he was sure he still had the chance. “I mean you’d think by now I would! Know better!” Willow raved aloud as she put the car in reverse, jerked backwards out of the parking space, slammed on the breaks then barreled forward into the street. Xander said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. “A Mood. An _impulse_. I could have been any girl!” her tone was accusing, but the accusation seemed to be directed mostly at herself. It was like she didn’t know he was there. Or didn’t care.

“Willow,” Xander began plaintively, “I didn’t mean...” he wasn’t sure what to say he didn’t mean. It didn’t matter.

“You are an idiot,” Willow said in tones of increasingly bitter realization. “And I’m an even bigger idiot!” She was still crying, but quietly now. “Because I keep imagining... I keep forgetting—” a fresh sob broke her voice, “Nothing is ever going to change the way you don’t feel about me!”

****

When he heard the bell Andrew frowned, laid aside his scotch and his pipe and made his way quite unhurriedly to the door. There stood Rupert, familiar, contemptible, subtly defiant wearing a suit that looked as if it had been taken from Andrew’s own closet and cut to fit him. Though taller, leaner and clean shaven, he looked very like his father. Except of course for the eyes. At his side was a young girl. Buffy. The Slayer. His wife.

She looked a good deal younger and more innocent dressed as she was decently if casually in jeans and a long sweater, her hair pulled back in a pony-tail, bangs framing her round little face. To Andrew’s mind, her simple, clean appearance made the sight of the two of them together more unseemly, not less. On top of every other wrong he had committed, his son had married a child. In three short days it would be his unpleasant duty to toast the fact before the world. He was angry, embarrassed and ashamed. The way the poor girl’s eyes—those deep, sad, liquid green pools of anxiety and trust—flitted incessantly in Rupert’s direction, seeking his reassurance!

Andrew turned away to hide the shutter that overcame him, not sure if he’d had too much to drink while awaiting his unwelcome guests or not enough. “Well?” He barked harshly, gesturing towards the interior of his home, “Don’t just stand there like a couple of fools!”

“Nice to meet you too,” Buffy snarked as she sauntered across his threshold. “I can see why this country is so well known for its hospitality.” Andrew stared stupidly for a moment, almost as if he hadn’t heard her at all then mumbled a few terse words to the effect that he was finding America’s reputation for etiquette equally well justified.

“Where are we to sleep?” Rupert asked crisply, preventing Buffy from making any reply.

Andrew nodded in the direction of a short hallway. “Door at the end,” he murmured without looking at either of them and retreated to his study. Closing the door firmly behind him, he downed the rest of his scotch in one gulp before sitting back at his desk and forcing his shaking hands to poor another, which he drank almost as quickly. He would go to bed early tonight he decided. He needed to gather his strength. There would be time enough to talk to Rupert about the business at hand in the morning. He’d get the Slayer out of the way, have Ms. Winston distract her with an explanation of all of the arrangements for the reception, not that anything could be changed at this point, but that should be enough to keep her busy and make her feel ‘involved’ while the grownups got some serious work done.

****

Allen knocked hesitantly on the half open door. He could hear voices within, the Mayor’s and another. Loud. Brash. Savage. Slightly garbled as though speaking from a mouth too full of teeth. He didn’t want to intrude. He didn’t want to hear. He didn’t want to know. The things he already had to know were more than enough.

“For Gosh sakes, Allen,” his boss scolded mildly, “come _in_. I want you to hear this.” Allen entered. The heavy blinds in the Mayor’s inner office were rolled all the way down. it was no mystery why. The impossibly blond creature that occupied the chair in front of Mayor Wilkins’ desk proudly, defiantly displayed the face of a demon spawned in the depths of hell. Under the oppressive weight of the Mayor’s expectation that he should do so, Allen extended a trembling hand towards the creature, whom he knew to be called ‘Spike.’ Rising not one more nanometer than was necessary, Spike grasped Allen’s hand firmly but briefly. He did not condescend to smile. Allen walked over to stand by the window.

“So, like I was saying,” the vampire continued, addressing the Mayor exclusively, just as if they were still alone in the room, “You’ve got enemies; I’ve got enemies, and the two worst ones are exactly the same. As long as either of them is alive, they’re going to cause nothing but trouble round here. Nothing but chaos. Which means, as long as these trouble makers remain among us, those of us who want to see a stable, prosperous Sunnydale for all our people ought to be working together.”

“Well that’s very interesting, Mr. Spike” said the Mayor. His tone was polite and cheerful. “Allen, according to your sources, what type of assets does Mr. Spike bring to the table?”

Spike focused his attention on Allen at last. His gaze was aggressive and predatory. “Well... S-s-sir,” Allen was nervous but nothing or no one could make him nervous enough to try to shade information that the Mayor had requested. “He’s a vampire, of course, and an experienced operator. He’s intelligent, charismatic, innovative and ruthless. He has one relatively weak young vampire loyal to him. Otherwise? Nothing.” Allen hesitated but continued. “His reputation among the local vampire community is one of ...of failure and of leading others into disaster. I believe his addition to staff would be detrimental to morale and could cause—”

Spike growled low and menacing. “I didn’t come here for a bloody job interview, Mate!” he snarled. Allen could tell the Mayor had heard just about enough. Without moving his fingers or even his eyes he mentally calculated the percentage of a second it would take him to reach for the cord and open the blinds and compared it to the time it would take Spike to leap from his chair and across the room. The result of the calculation was acceptable to him. He made direct eye contact with his boss. The Mayor nodded, nearly imperceptibly. In the same instant, Spike was in motion. So was Allen. The vampire roared like a scalded lion as his face and hands caught fire, but his momentum continued to carry him forward, an object in motion, until his velocity was altered by the mass of Allen Finch’s body, knocking them both to the floor.

Bellowing in pain and rage, Spike wrapped his flaming arms around the Mayor’s deputy and held on as he beat his blistered and bleeding face against the young man’s chest, rolling with him on the floor, struggling to put out each knew spark as it ignited. He couldn’t hold out long this way, but he was betting that he wouldn’t have to. Allen was shrieking and sobbing now. He was being badly beaten and burned. No human could stand to watch that kind of suffering in someone it knew and was more or less aligned with. Within ten or fifteen seconds, Mayor Wilkins made his way over to the window and closed the blinds again.

Weak as he was, Spike managed to drag Allen with him through the outer office, past the stunned receptionist and into the hallway, where he dropped him at the feet of an advancing security guard and sprinted for a nearby stairwell. He could have taken the stairs all the way to the basement and the tunnels beyond, but he was in no condition to face the Mayor’s vampire flunkies. Instead, he ran down to the ground floor and out the back service entrance, crawling along the ally in the shadows of buildings and dumpsters until he came to a manhole that he knew. It took nearly all his strength to lift the cover and fall inside, pulling the lid down after him.

Spike lay on his face in the cool, damp sewage. Time passed. Minutes? Hours? He couldn’t say. Harmony came looking for him, like a faithful dog. Even she was better than he deserved. “To hell with it!” he said. “Sod it all. Let’s go to sodding France.”

****

“Well... that wasn’t exactly what I expected,” Buffy declared when they were alone in their small but tastefully appointed room.

“Nor I,” Giles agreed worriedly. “I’ve never seen him so... Of course I admit it’s been many year since... I mean I suppose _some_ degree of decline is to be expected at him time of life... but he seemed so...”

“Hammered?” Buffy suggested her tone ironically cheerful.

Giles sat down on the bed and rubbed his temples. “I was _going_ to say troubled,” he explained, “but yes, that too. That I’ve seen plenty of times unfortunately, though not usually so early in the evening. But typically drinking only makes him more pompous and full of himself. I’ve never seen him appear so... _tentative_. It’s almost as if he were... afraid.”

“Well,” Buffy countered, “I didn’t get ‘afraid’ so much as ‘hateful’, but if I’d more or less declared myself an enemy of someone who could literally rip me in half, I might be a little nervous to have them sleeping at my house for two whole weeks.”

“Yes, but you’re not Andrew Giles,” he murmured with a kind of uneasy wonder. “He only started blustering and barking to cover the fact that he’d nothing to say. Which, there again, is unlike him. Usually when he has absolutely nothing to say worth saying he goes on saying it as verbosely and with as many tedious, arcane references as possible until everyone has been lectured into submission.”

Buffy let that one go. Giles didn’t seem in any mood to be teased. “Maybe he’s still having a little trouble... processing,” she suggested instead sitting down next to him on the bed. “I mean he has had a lot of... information dumped on him recently. About the past. Maybe he’s having some identity issues, feeling not so confident in himself.”

“Well I hope to God he’s putting on a better show in public,” Giles murmured worriedly. “We are counting on his... persuasiveness to win over a number of votes in this proceeding.”

Buffy put her arms around Giles and kissed him reassuringly on the neck. “Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s probably just miserable because he feels like you’re beating him at something and having us here is sort of like rubbing it in.” To Buffy’s surprise Giles’ expression told her he was the opposite of comforted by her suggestion. “I’m sure in a day or two he’ll suck it up and be his persuasively pompous self again.” She tried to reassure him. “And even if he’s not, we have Robson on our side and his buddy Crowne and Quentin and Peter. And believe it or not I have won an election or two on the strength of my own persuasiveness before.”

Giles gave her a more doubtful look still. “Alight, I know this isn’t _exactly_ like running for Fiesta Queen,” she conceded. “I mean, it’s not a popularity contest per se, but the basic principals are still the same. You go after the key people, the ones with influence. You find out what already matters to them, convince them that option A is better than option B for getting that done and then make them feel excited enough about it to drag their whole clique or clan or whatever along with them. From what I can tell this guy Virgil is the real power player, or if we can’t get him that Wyndham-Pryce guy. If we get either or both of them, we won’t even need whatever votes your dad can dredge up.”

“Well, either could get us close enough that we don’t have to worry if he fails to deliver on one or two hard sells,” Giles half agreed, “assuming Quentin pulls up the reigns hard enough, soon enough on his House.”

“He’s cutting it kind of close not saying anything until after Friday,” Buffy worried aloud.

“True,” Giles mused, “but he has to be very careful not to arouse suspicion after taking such a hard line against us in the first place. Peter won’t be arriving in town until tomorrow. He has to be given at least a little time to persuade his father, which fortunately he seems poised to do without being told to. That should at least lend the whole affair some semblance of authenticity.”

“Well, I just hope Elaine doesn’t persuade him not to persuade him so _we_ have to persuade him to persuade him all over again,” Buffy grumbled.

“Thank God she’s _staying_ in London!” Giles agreed. Being in America without her children the past two and a half weeks had allowed Elaine Travers to give Peter’s affairs (which mainly meant his work with Giles and Buffy) her undivided attention. Her interference was made all the worse by the surreptitious, backhanded way she went about it, insisting all the while that she didn’t want to interfere. Giles had actually overheard her advising Peter not to get too ‘invested’ in Buffy given that she was ‘approaching a certain age.’ Which didn’t stop her from trying to offer Buffy ‘friendly’ advice about how to live her life and approach her marriage. Ironically, her major theme was the need to respect and defer to the judgment of one’s husband.

Buffy yawned and laid back on the bed, her feet still dangling over the side. “Well whatever is going to happen tomorrow, I’m not going to worry about it any more tonight, I’m exhausted.”

“But it’s only 6:30,” Giles objected, you’ll be up by 2:00.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Buffy yawned again crawling over onto the side of the bed Giles wasn’t sitting on so that she could stretch out more fully. “I’ve been needing more sleep than I’ve been getting lately. It turns out baking a human being from scratch is actually hard work. Who knew?”

Giles smiled, stretching out next to her. “I’m sure _Elaine_ could have told us if only we’d sense enough to listen,” he teased moving in closer and kissing her on the lips.

Buffy grinned back at him as his hands began to caress her body. “What are you doing?” she asked, her tone pleasantly suspicious.

“Something that will keep you awake for another hour and make me sleepy,” he murmured against her neck, kissing her throat and running his hands up the inside of her sweater.

Buffy let him pull her sweater off, but when he tried to unbutton her shirt she held his hands and kissed them with a tiny, apologetic groan of regret. “We can’t,” she argued. “He’ll hear us. It’s too weird.”

Giles seemed very genuinely disappointed. “We... made love in your mother’s house,” he argued almost petulantly. “You didn’t think that was ‘too weird’.” It _had_ been a few days, Buffy realized, what with all the rushing around getting ready for this trip and the anxiety of the impending judgment. She guessed he felt his sexual needs were being neglected. She sympathized, she really did, and in the morning she knew very well that their roles might be reversed, but she was worn out to the point of longing for unconsciousness. Besides, she just _knew_ that creepy, spiteful old man was sitting up in his study right now getting even more drunk and listening for the sounds of any such activity so that he could simultaneously disapprove and live vicariously.

“Mom was asleep,” she reminded him. ‘Like I want to be right now,’ she thought.

“You don’t _know_ that,” Giles persisted.

Buffy rolled her eyes and yawned again. “Oh yeah,” she said sarcastically. “ _That’s_ the winning argument(!) My mom might have heard us doing it, so your dad should get the chance to listen too?”

Giles made an unpleasant, unpleased face. “That’s not _exactly_ what I meant to say,” he assured her, at once defensive and apologetic.

“Well if I do wake up at two a.m.,” Buffy offered conciliatorily, “and you still want to, let me know.”

Giles smiled. “If by some miracle I manage to fall asleep by then,” he instructed her seriously, “wake me.” His face and his body were mere inches from hers, one hand casually caressing her back studiously remaining above the belt, as if it weren’t particularly up to anything at all. “There is no dream nor rest so sweet as to be worth one moment in your arms,” he assured her fervently, moving even closer. His eyes and voice were filled with longing, adoration and sincerity.

Buffy blushed and grinned. “It’s not fair to be so sexy and so pitiful at the same time,” she chided him good-naturedly.

Giles grinned back at her a little sheepishly and ran his hand up her back under her blouse which seemed to have come untucked of its own accord. Her skin sang at his touch. “Yes,” he murmured, nuzzling, then kissing her neck again, “but the real question is, is it working?” It was. His other hand had more or less completed the job of unbuttoning her blouse and her breasts were crying out for the touch of his bare skin on hers. She kissed him back and put her hands on his body with a tiny noise of surrender between a groan of protest and a sigh of relief.

“We have to be quiet,” she bargained halfheartedly.

“Yes,” he moaned unclasping her bra and burying his face in her chest, “very, very quiet.”

 ****

The tinkling of little bells told him he was no longer alone in the shop. “Oh it’s you,” Travers said, looked up. “What the devil are you doing here?” He _sounded_ affably puzzled. Robson knew better.

“I’m looking for a wedding present for a friend,” he said, mimicking innocence just as completely for the sheer hell of it. “People have been telling me for years that this is the best place in the city to find rare and out of print books. Especially on... arcane and esoteric subjects.”

“I know quite well what your ‘friend’ wants,” said Quentin sufferingly. “He’s even got my son trying to intercede with me on his behalf, or on his wife’s behalf, or so it’s presented.” He shook his head in a very slightly exaggerated gesture of inner conflict. “It’s not that I don’t sympathize with the position she’s being put into...” he began wearily, “And evidently she has a very great natural talent... but the authority and dignity of the Council must be maintained at all costs.” He finished in a tone of haughty resolve as if he were arguing to convince himself of the righteousness of his position and succeeding in keeping himself convinced only by very great effort. In short, he was playing his part to the hilt.

“Rubbish!” said Robson dismissively. “The girl’s scared to death of us; so is Rupert. If we put out the olive branch now we’ll have saved them through our miraculous mercy. We’ll own them for life. Or at least until Cruciamentum. What are we going to get by Striking him? At best the grudging cooperation of an extremely resentful Slayer; at worst a long interregnum in our ability to curtail the spread of the dark forces while we battle to the death with our own champion instead. If there could possibly be a time for such a waste of blood and energy, this is certainly not it.”

“What would you have me do?” Travers countered with a wonderful facsimile of affronted dignity. “Advise my house to vote against a Strike that they must know within reason I was instrumental in recommending? Against a Watcher who has abused his position beyond the bounds of human decency?”

Robson hadn’t had such a strong desire to punch another man straight on the nose since he was still at school. ‘Look here you conniving old fraud!’ he wanted to shout. ‘We both know that your scheme to destroy Rupert and Buffy has blown up in your face and you are now more afraid of a Strike than anyone! Why don’t you quit mucking about and help me stop it?!’ Instead he implored his colleague with all the humility he could muster, “Mr. Travers, please, we need _your_ leadership on this. Don’t let Dunstan lead us twice into the same disaster! Especially _now_. If you call for a vote to Resend, I know the others will listen to you as they will not listen to me. Everyone has such deep respect for you. As they had for your father.”

A look of shockingly intense emotion flashed across Quentin’s face and was gone so quickly that Robson could hardly say he’d seen it let alone sort out exactly what emotions were involved. Regaining control of his features, Quentin affected a look of mildly sympathetic yet superior contemplation. “You’ve certainly given me something to think about,” he said, the epitome of non-commitment.

“Think quickly,” Robson advised, turning to leave, “and carefully. Because if you don’t do something to stop it, we’re going to have a rogue Slayer on our hands. Then I fear we shall all see what is beyond the bound of human decency.”

****

Douglas took another deep drag on his cigarette and softly stroked the dark hair of the woman sleeping beside him feeling something akin to both satisfaction and regret. It was her place, and he knew she didn’t like him to smoke in it. But she was asleep. And he also knew she’d given up expecting him to be considerate a long time ago. Eva, Dr. Lorring, was an ex-ex. They no longer had to pretend their relationship had a name or a status or a velocity. They no longer had to pretend they weren’t going to do this anymore unless they could agree that it _meant_ something. He was lonely and he’d found her alone. That was enough of a reason. It was just sex. Of course, it wasn’t just sex. It just didn’t matter anymore that it wasn’t.

Silently, Douglas got up and stubbed out his spent cigarette in Eva’s bathroom sink. He threw the damp butt in the trashcan by the toilet, making no effort to hide it. He hadn’t asked her what he’d told himself he was coming over here to ask her, but it didn’t seem right to wake her now. Not that that would have stopped him if he’d really wanted to talk to her about it. He didn’t. He got dressed and went back to the hospital.

 _She_ was waiting for him in the lobby. Douglas looked at her dispassionately. She looked like hell, this decaying old wreck of a woman. Her eyes were sunken and haunted. Her too tight, too colorful clothes were strikingly at odds with her bedraggled gray hair (still dyed an improbable red at the tips) and the leathery skin that was all too visible beneath her hastily applied yet still excessive makeup. Despite her desultory efforts at feigning youth, she looked far older than her forty-nine years. “What do you want?” he asked calmly.

“My daughter is dead,” Wanda said flatly.

“Going on six weeks,” Douglas pointed out bitterly. “You just now sober up enough to give a shit or are the cops paying you to come tug at my heartstrings?” Wanda looked at Douglas in mute, accusing misery. The few patients and hospital staff in the immediate vicinity were eyeing them both with nervousness and distaste. “Fuck it,” he said, pushing the button for the elevator. “I can’t talk about this here. Come up to my office.” Wanda nodded silently and never quite lifted her head again. She followed him. Her grief seemed surprisingly genuine. It was enough to make Doug feel like shit for being suspicious of her, but not enough to make him any less suspicious. A rattlesnake is a rattlesnake. A rattlesnake in pain is still a rattlesnake.

“Done pretty good for yourself,” Wanda commented, looking around his large, airy, comfortably furnished office as if she thought he had stolen it from her somehow.

“I work my fucking ass off for this shit,” Doug informed her defensively, not bothering to disguise his hatred now that they were behind closed doors. “What do you want from me?”

“That girl is a murderer,” she said with hard, flat viciousness.

‘And you’re a fucking child molester,’ he thought, but he said, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“They know you’ve been meeting her,” Wanda said quietly. So the cops _had_ sent her. It figured. No doubt they really were paying her, in cash or drugs or both, even if she also had intrinsic motivations.

“What do you want from me?” Douglas repeated.

“Justice,” Wanda said with surprising self-righteousness.

“No,” Douglas informed her coolly. “Believe me. You don’t.”

“You don’t know what it’s like to be a mother,” Wanda said morosely.

“No,” Douglas admitted, “but I know what it’s like to completely fuck something up and to want to find a way to make that not be true when you know damn well you can’t.” The hatred was gone from his voice now. He barely felt it anymore. More than anything, he felt sad and sorry, and alone in the company of someone he could never trust to share his misery, even when he knew they were feeling many of the same regrets.

“You were a lousy, worse-than-good-for-nothing mother, Wanda,” he informed her matter-of-factly. “You fucked up Lennette’s life from the day she was born. And now it’s over. You can’t make it up to her. Revenge doesn’t change that. It just makes you a lousy, worse-than-good-for-nothing grandmother. Go back to Boston,” he advised, more or less seriously, almost tenderly, “Get high. Watch television. Try not to think. Get yourself some quality denial going. It’s too late to do anything else.”

****

Andrew Giles poured himself another drink as he tried in vain to concentrate on rereading Plato’s “Republic,” to pretend that he couldn’t hear the giggling and sighing, the gasping and moaning, the squeaking of bed springs. So much for an early night. The two bedrooms shared a wall. There was no point moving to the kitchen or living room either; he was already at the farthest end of the flat. He more than half thought it was all being exaggerated for his benefit, that Rupert was making sure he knew damn well that he had been supplanted at long last, that the generations of mankind were rolling on without him as he declined into increasing irrelevance. Or maybe just driving home the point that he didn’t give a damn about right and wrong, least of all as defined by Andrew Giles.

After reading the same inane passage on the reordering of relations between men and women for the fifth time Andrew slammed the book closed, cursing quietly. It was appalling! It was indecent! It was rude! It was unfair was what it was. Married men were fools to envy the life of the bachelor, especially when it came to sex. Imagine making love to a beautiful woman night after night after night, and in the daytime too if you wanted to, not because the stars had momentarily aligned in your favor or because the laughing gods were leading you into some disaster but because that was just part of your routine everyday existence, like picking up your dry-cleaning or going to the theater!

‘Unfair?’ Andrew scoffed silently at himself. Given the particular sins of his youth, it was nothing but fair that he should live and die alone, a sort of natural justice. What was unfair was that he had had no choice but to commit the sin which made his punishment so just. As for the sins that had led to it, the ones that had left him without a choice, the ones he had so eagerly chosen, he’d had no way of knowing... granted he’d taken a risk, they both had... But with only a modest amount of luck, it was a risk that should have worked out, if not quite to the heaven that the innocent eyes of youth envisioned, at least to something less than a cataclysmic disaster. Andrew Giles was not a lucky man. He was long past deluding himself that he could safely leave anything to chance. The only sane approach to life was to determine what needed to be done and do whatever was necessary to _make_ it happen.

****

“Cordelia?” said a familiar female voice, it’s rich, smooth, pleasant tone just a little graver than usual. Cordelia turned to find Ms. Miller at her elbow. “Cordelia, come into my classroom for a minute, I want to talk to you about something.” Her manner was as calm as ever and nearly as friendly, but there was a firmness about what she said that banished the thought of questioning or objecting from Cordelia’s mind even though she knew she would be late for one of only two hour long cheerleading practices she had managed to schedule for the week.

“What is it?” she asked, all business, “A message?”

Ms. Miller frowned very slightly. “No,” she said, “but that has a lot to do with what I wanted to talk to you about. My husband Greg isn’t from Sunnydale,” she went on seriously. “Most of what he thinks he knows about the supernatural he’s read in books about things like the Knights Templar and the Royal Arch Masons or top secret Nazi experiments with demonic energy. He thinks this is all some sort of delightfully amusing real life adventure story. It’s not.”

Cordelia was quiet for a moment. “People are dying,” she said finally. “Friends of mine, or people who used to be. This isn’t a game to me. I don’t think it is to your husband either.”

“Only two things can happen when you fight something evil and infinitely more powerful than you are,” said Ms. Miller grimly, “Either you don’t bother it and you waste your time, or you do and it destroys you.”

“I don’t feel like I have a choice,” Cordelia told her just as seriously. “I am from Sunnydale, and so are you. If we aren’t going to fight for it, why even stay in town?”

“I have my reasons,” said Ms. Miller cryptically. “Take my advice,” she added warmly, “Find someplace else to call home before you can say the same. You only have a little more than a year of school left, then you’ll be going off to college. You have a first rate mind when you’re willing to use it, and you’re going to have time enough as an adult to find something worthwhile to do with it. There’s evil enough to fight anywhere if that’s what you think you need to do. But at your age, Cordelia, the number one person you need to look out for is yourself.”

Cordelia shook her head. “Thanks for the advice,” she said, “but I already have my reasons. I’m not a child anymore. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Ms. Miller looked sad but not surprised. “Greg told me you’d say that,” she said. “He’s very... admiring of your dedication to ‘The Cause.’” Cordelia recognized the very careful way in which Ms. Miller was choosing her words as implying that there was something she didn’t want to imply. She felt threatened, Cordelia realized, not literally in a romantic sense but close enough for most purposes. Her husband was putting himself in danger both physically and professionally by associating with Giles and bearing his messages to Cordelia even if the forces of darkness never noticed their activities. She didn’t want to lose him anymore to a cause than to a girl and less still to a scandalous misunderstanding.

Cordelia liked and respected both Mr. and Ms. Miller. She regretted being a source of danger to them. And she knew the danger was very real. Garrett Chase could have either or both of the Millers fired in a heartbeat. And he could be as deadly as any demon if he really wanted to be. Chris Epps had been reported missing three days after Eric Wiftler’s ‘suicide.’ No one had seen or heard from him in a month. This was the reason that she couldn’t risk contacting Xander, even indirectly, the reason she didn’t dare to reassure him that her heart was still his, not that she really thought he could doubt it. She understood Ms. Miller’s position, she really did. But she couldn’t afford to be understanding.

“I have to do what I have to do,” Cordelia said coolly, “and to take all the help I can get, wherever I can get it. This is a war, Ms. Miller. And if you think there is such a thing as a civilian, you haven’t been paying attention.” Cordelia strode from the classroom with the dignity and cool grace of uncompromising authority. Outside, she lengthened her stride immediately, hurrying to the gymnasium before any of her troops could lose patience with her and wander off. It was urgent that she check their progress on the maneuvers she’d already given them to practice and run them through the new routine she’d just worked up from her more recent studies.

****

It was the middle of the afternoon. Now was the time. There would never be a better one. In an hour Oz’s cousin would be home from kiddy league practice, with his aunt and uncle soon to follow and possibly his mom too, depending on what shift she was working today. That would be no good. Willow needed to do what she was about to do in private. ‘Or not at all?’ a tiny inner voice begged, ‘Please?’ She hardened up her self-hardening resolve and knocked on the front door. It took Oz a little while to get there, but not too long. It was still painful for him to move but he was pretty much for just getting on with it.

“Oh, hey,” he said, pleasant surprise mingled with an unstable mixture of relief and worry, unless of course she was imagining all of it. Which would be easy to do with Oz, actually.

“Hey,” Willow answered mustering a miserable little puff of cheerfulness. He had good reason to be surprised and either relieved or worried. She had told him only yesterday that she would have no time to see him before her sentencing, and had included that most worrisome of all expressions in the English language: ‘Don’t worry about me.’

“Come in,” Oz said with a casual deep trust that broke Willow’s heart. She did not come in.

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” she apologized miserably.

“What?” said Oz, the unpleasant surprise in his voice sharp and unambiguous, “Why?”

“You’ll be well enough by next month,” Willow pointed out avoidantly. “You won’t need my magic anymore.”

“You decided this weeks ago.” It was a curious accusation, regretful, not noticeably angry. She supposed that was one way of making her response into an answer. Now that he said it, she was not entirely sure that it was untrue. “This is why you didn’t want me to touch you,” he went on, explaining his own realization to himself. Willow _was_ entirely sure this was not true, but she nodded anyway, blinking back tears. It was easier. It was what he needed to hear.

“But why?!” Oz demanded, suddenly very angry, very shrill, frighteningly so. Willow stepped back a little though he had not moved towards her.

“Because I don’t know who I am!” she wailed miserably, though she had not been conscious of exactly that thought until she heard it ringing in the silence. “Because I don’t know _what_ I am,” she muttered, almost to herself. An addition, she realized, not a correction.

“Or what _I_ am,” Oz replied with subdued self loathing.

Willow was suddenly angry. “That has nothing to do with it!” she insisted fiercely. “This isn’t about you!”

“Ah,” said Oz, smiling faintly, his sense of ironic detachment seemingly regained. “That’s a relief. I’d hate to think the end of our relationship had anything to do with me.”

****

Wanda perched on one of the high chrome stools along the counter at Eddie’s, the not-quite-diner-nor-yet-bar, almost-truck-stop on the highway between Scottsdale and Phoenix. Her scrawny yet still flabby legs dangled ridiculously from her too short, too tight skirt. She gripped her Irish coffee protectively in both hands gulping at it between glances over her shoulder, waiting.

“Thank God!” she declared, to the tall man who sat down beside her. He wore an off the rack tan suit in a way that somehow left the impression in people’s minds that they’d seen a man in a uniform.  “I think I’m being followed!” Wanda whined, “I can feel her eyes all over me wherever I go in this Godforsaken wasteland.” Her tone was one of indignant demand. There was a silence. “I need my money, now,” she said at last, making her demands explicit. “I’m ready to get the hell out of here.” The man looked at her impassively for a moment, then summoned the waitress and ordered black coffee. “Well,” Wanda persisted, “do you have my money or not?”

“You have yet to bring us any useful information on the whereabouts of the girl,” he pointed out evenly.

“The little shit won’t give her up,” Wanda grumbled. “What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Something worth ten thousand dollars,” said the man bluntly but without rancor. They sat in silence for a moment. Wanda finished her drink. “Do you actually think she may be following you?” he asked contemplatively.

“Give me a cigarette,” Wanda demanded crossly. He did. She smoked. “I don’t know,” she admitted after a few puffs. “What if she is? You want me to let her kill me so you can catch her?”

“I would regret that,” the man said calmly, “very slightly.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Wanda pouted.

“When I know where she is, if you have had anything whatsoever to do with my knowing, then and only then will I pay you ten thousand dollars.” The man said coolly. “I’d start getting creative if I were you,” he added. “You are not my only potential source of information. He downed his coffee like a shot and dropped a crisp hundred dollar bill on the counter next to her plate. “See you tomorrow,” he said casually, then stood and walked away.

****

It was 1:30a.m. when Buffy woke up. She was naked and freezing cold. The sound of soft snoring from the next room told her both that she didn’t have to worry about running into her father-in-law right now and that she ought to be thoroughly embarrassed when she did. Giles was slumped against the headboard where he’d propped himself up on a couple of extra pillows that he must have retrieved from somewhere else, glasses askew, an open book laying face down on his chest, wearing flannel pajamas over a set of thermal underwear she’d only ever seen folded in his top drawer. She doubted if he’d been asleep an hour. Besides the fact that the entire room had been visibly restraightened from its already tidy condition, all of their clothes had been neatly sorted, _ironed_ and put away. Because, clearly, the one problem they needed to be expending maximum energy to address, above all others, was the horror of wrinkled clothing.

Buffy wrapped herself in a blanket and started rummaging through the closet and chest of drawers. Even though these were the things she herself had chosen only a day and a half ago specifically for this trip, even though she had packed with an ‘if you’re not sure, bring it’ policy, it was still hard to find something to wear. She had shopped until the aggregate weight of Giles’ daily passive aggressive pronouncements that he wasn’t going to tell her what to spend and that he was quite sure she was mature enough to use proper fiscal restraint given their total lack of income had become unbearable; but still she had found almost nothing she was really happy with. She wasn’t quite round enough yet where it counted to wear maternity clothes of any kind and buying clothes a couple of sizes too big mostly just meant they were too big.

She’d packed mostly skirts, which she’d been wearing instead of pants to hide the atrocious panty lines caused by the larger sized underpants that now fit her expanded waistline but sagged shapelessly in the butt. But the ice crystals decorating the corners of the window panes told her that a short skirt would mean freezing her butt off, and a long one was definitely no good for patrolling, which she guessed was what she was planning on doing this time of the night. After all, a city this size was bound to have _something_ that needed killing while she was in town.

With a little half-whine, half-groan of dissatisfaction Buffy pulled on a pair of dark sweat pants that she was coming to despise more and more each day. She squeezed into a too-tight long-sleeve top that did nothing to hide the way her breasts spilled over her half size too small bra cups and covered the whole train wreck as best she could with a hip-length, sparkly-silver belted sweater that she wouldn’t have been caught dead in two months ago. She hurriedly ransacked the kitchen, slathering the hard brown bread that she found with enough lumpy jam to making it arguable edible. Still feeling less than satisfied though no longer in danger of vomiting, she scribbled a note for Giles and headed out. There were four hours left until sunrise. The Slayer was on the hunt.

****

The last rays of the dying sun made rose and amber jewels of every window in Phoenix. The woman was walking alone down a nearly empty street, past buildings nobody had any use for after five o’clock. There was nothing hesitant or furtive about her walking. She stalked. Majestically. Proudly. Like a cat. Her blond hair shown in the fading light, like a halo. But she was no angel.

“Such is the will of God!” Marcus shouted and threw himself into her path as into the path of a freight train, with as little expectation of survival. There was a moment of confusion before he realized that the hard, rough, hot surface pressed against his cheek was asphalt and that the thing that only choked him when he tried to rise was the girl’s boot. His limited view of the world consisted predominantly of the bloodied and broken bodies of men he knew, respected and cherished. At last, he added up the available data and reached the startling conclusion that he was not yet dead.

“Alright, you Limy Bastard!” the girl declared when theirs were the two last living souls on the field of battle, “What the hell is this all about?”

Marcus closed his eyes. Although there were a great many things he would rather do than die today, lying in this hot, bloody street with the boot of the bastard Slayer on his neck was not one of them. She kicked him in the chest with her free foot, hard enough to crack his ribs but not to liquefy any internal organs. Paradoxically, the sharp unrelenting pain made him much more interested in the prospect of not dying. “The Key!” he gasped urgently as tough explanation could somehow lead to understanding and thence to mercy, even in this situation. “The Key is the link. The link must be severed. Such is the will of God!”

She seemed to think about this a moment. Then she kicked him a quite a bit harder. “What the fuck are you talking about?!” she demanded. “What fucking key? The key to what?”  


Marcus smiled a little as he realized that one of his lungs was in fact filling up with blood. The hope of survival no longer complicated his decision making process. He told her what he knew because he was proud of knowing it and for the pleasure of speaking while he could. “To the Gate of Hell!” he declared, then began to bubble with wet, wheezy laughter. “You mistress!” he murmured, amused at himself. “You are the Key. In the hand of the Beast, you would open the Gates of Hell. But God will not let it be so.” His rasping took on a dreamlike quality as he once more recited, “The Key is the link. The link must be severed. Such is the will of God!” Then Marcus went to meet his maker.

****

Andrew woke to the smell of breakfast cooking: eggs and bacon, fried tomatoes, everything as per tradition, exactly the way he preferred it. The smell made him ill. The sound of meat sizzling seemed to aggravate the pounding in his head. He pulled on his robe and lumbered into the kitchen. He’d have liked to have done more to make himself presentable but he needed something to clear the cotton wool out of his head. He needed... exactly what was sitting on the breakfast table: dry toast, two Excedrin, a large glass of water and a Bloody Mary. He felt a stab of resentment, almost sure that Rupert was being ‘thoughtful’ just to prove him wrong about something and equally sure that he was being paranoid and uncharitable to think so. “Did you... pass the night alright?” his son asked with that maddening combination of subtle contempt and overt concern. It might have been thirty years ago.

“Never better,” said Andrew curtly, but he ate and drank what was offered and was glad to have it. “Did you manage to get any sleep,” he asked at length, in what he’d thought was a perfectly civil tone. Rupert glared at him as though he’d been deeply insulted.

“About four hours this morning,” he answered finally, “I should be able to plow straight through today and have my internal clock back on London time by tomorrow, though I might take a short nap in the evening if I’m going to be required to go ‘out’ with Robson later.”

Andrew shook his head. “He is making a rather ostentatious point of keeping your company, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Giles agreed, “And I am truly grateful for it.”

“I always thought he was smarter than that,” Andrew mused, head still shaking. “A man in his position ought to have better sense than to—”

“Exhibit courage and loyalty under trying circumstances?” Giles challenged dryly.

“I suppose _she’ll_ be joining us at any moment,” Andrew said, changing the subject with a nod at the two picture perfect breakfast plates Rupert had produced during this conversation.

“Yes, _she_ will,” Giles answered, snide for snide. “Presumably,” he added. “She went for a morning... erm jog, evidently. I expect she’ll be back any time now the sun’s up. And it seems like a day that could use a good old-fashioned English breakfast to start.”

“Yes,” Andrew murmured vaguely, “I expect so. They do get... hungry.”

Giles didn’t ask if he meant Slayers or pregnant women. If he wasn’t going to be told what he really needed to know about his past, he had no wish to provide an audience for his father’s self-indulgent reminiscences. “What are your plans for the day?” he asked instead. “Is there anyone we’re to meet with or anything more we can do to prepare prior to Friday? I expect we’ll want to go over the guest list if nothing else, but I’m afraid Buffy still hasn’t found anything to wear, so that’s bound to take a bite out of the day.”

“On the contrary,” Andrew said. “I seems like an excellent way to keep her busy while we work on our strategies for drumming up votes.”

“Keep her busy?” Giles scoffed. “Don’t be an idiot. We’ll need her to participate in the strategizing so she’ll know how to behave towards whom on Friday and beyond.”

“I suppose it would be too much to expect that she would simply do as she’s told?” Andrew suggested more snidely than ever.

“It would,” said Giles firmly. “Father, Buffy is my wife, my partner in life. She’s not some... flunky who can be ordered about.”

“She’s a Slayer,” said Andrew dismissively. “A seventeen-year-old girl. Don’t start imagining she’s some kind of deep independent thinker just for the sake of your self justification. A lie is an act of violence, Rupert. Only fools lie to themselves.”

There was a moment of tense silence. They both knew that, by omission at least, Andrew had spent his whole life lying to his son, withholding information to which he was damned well entitled. “Do you have the R.S.V.P. list here?” Rupert asked coolly.

“At my office,” said Andrew quietly.“My private office, not the Permanent Staff Office.” The tension in the room continued unabated.

“Then we’ll start there as soon as—” The front door opened. Buffy walked in swinging her arms and humming cheerfully. She was dressed, Giles thought, the way one of Charlie’s Angels would have dressed to go for a morning jog, if only she’d had a fuzzy headband and a functionless little towel.

“Hey,” she said, “Did you know this town is, like, crazy with vampires? I killed three just on the subway ride home, and one of them was a transit worker, which actually makes sense because—Okay, why does it feel like a two sided funeral in here?” No one answered her directly. Andrew made a little coughing noise of discomfort. Buffy stared back at both of them, wishing she hadn’t said anything.

“I made breakfast,” Giles offered more or less apologetically.

“Awe,” Buffy said, “that’s so sweet, thanks, I’m starving. He always does things like this,” she added cheerfully addressing Andrew as she pushed her tomato gingerly aside with her fork and began digging into the eggs and bacon with gusto. “I married the nicest man in the whole entire world.” She tilted her head girlishly, beaming at Rupert. “Yay me.” Was she trying to drive him mad, Andrew wondered, or was she so bubble headed that she’d actually forgotten the mood of seething hatred that existed between Rupert and he?

“I do my best, Darling,” Rupert gushed as he sat down to his own plate at last, beaming back at her just as foolishly.

“Well, if you two lovebirds will excuse me,” Andrew declared acidly, getting abruptly to his feet, “I think I shall go and get dressed. We’ve less than three days to orchestrate this ... spectacle. We can’t afford to let this one slip away from us.”

****

“Are you absolutely certain that’s what they were?” Quentin said into the phone. Though he spoke very quietly, he did not whisper. His tone was firm and calm. He was deeply concerned by what he was hearing, though still confident in his ability, ultimately, to handle the situation. Gale continued to stare at the book she was supposed to be reading, turning a page ever so often with a tiny twinge of guilt, listening carefully. “Well if we knew _that_ , we’d be very wise men in deed. Despite their bizarre machinations in medieval church politics and since, they’ve always given our people (Watchers and Slayers alike) a wide berth.... Well, yes, assuming one credits the writings of Abbott Michaelev at face value.

“Yes, undoubtedly,” he agreed with the caller, then a moment later, “no, I’m not ready to go that far just yet.” Whatever was said next left him grimly amused. “Easy there Mr. Weatherby,” he said. Gale turned another page. Her heart sped up a little. She listened more carefully still. “In all likelihood, you shall soon have your chance.... Well perhaps there as well. Eventually.... No, nothing’s been decided yet. It’ll all depend on what transpires the next couple of days.... Well perhaps your invitation was lost in the mail,” Quentin joked sardonically. “Yes, well, that’s certainly a colorful way of putting it....

“Well, Man is a corrupt thing,” said Quentin placatingly. He was trying, politely, to extricate himself from the conversation Weatherby wanted to have, Gale realized, not agreeing or disagreeing, neither wishing to upset his faithful hunting hound nor to encourage him to keep barking madly up whatever tree his holy zeal was fixated upon at the moment. “One never knows exactly how the consequences of our moral failings will be visited upon the world....”

****

The night was back. The wind screamed. The vault of heaven had been ripped open. The flood gushed forth upon the Earth like the wrath of an anguished god. Like Demeter weeping for her missing daughter. Diana, the Moon, quailed and hid behind the roiling cauldron of a super-cell, unable to endure her sister’s suffering. Sheila Rosenberg remained indifferent. She lay peacefully on the bed in her cluttered spare room, breathing in and out.

Willow sat cross legged on the bed beside her, not looking at her or touching her, eyes closed, listening to the rain. She was wailing too, but only on the inside, a hidden, quiet storm of rage and grief. ‘Love me, damn you,’ she more felt than thought, ‘Why don’t you love me? Am I really so terrible?’ She ignored the part of herself that wanted to answer ‘yes.’ It only made her angrier. Anyway, she reminded herself, she was the one who had to love Sheila, not necessarily the other way round.

That thought made her angriest of all. Everyone though Willow was so nice. Everyone _expected_ it of her, felt entitled to rely on her niceness. Good old Willow was not expected, not _entitled_ to reject anyone. Her job was to be rejected, in whole or in part and yet and still to be there for you, as much or as little as you wanted. She was the girl whose heart you could break and still cry on her shoulder when somebody else broke yours. She was the girl who would still go out with you after you tried to kill and eat her, who would tell you it was okay because she was so grateful that anyone wanted her for anything ever. She was the girl you could count on to help when you were in trouble then have somewhere more important to be when she was in trouble for helping you. She was the girl you could torment for ten years then pal up to for a few weeks and expect her to sympathize with your problems, do all your homework, look out for your interests and put your needs and desires ahead of her own. She was a fall-back friend, like a safety school. When all of your better friends were dead or three hours away or too cool to talk to you anymore, there was always Willow. Nobody ever bothered to ask if that was who she wanted to be, if it was convenient for her to be that person, if she found the role meaningful or worthwhile in any sense. Now she was about to spend the next ten weeks in juvenile detention for the any-thing-but-nice things she’d done in the name of helping Buffy.

“I can’t do it,” she said aloud, speaking of but not to her mother. She couldn’t give what she didn’t have because Sheila had never given it to her in the first place. She didn’t think she should have to. Willow wasn’t that nice. She wasn’t that selfless. She had a self the same as everybody else, with needs and desires and _faults_ that she was goddamned well entitled to. It was about time, she decided, to figure out what they were. It was time to learn who she was, _what_ she was, and to decide what to do about it.

****

“It was Her,” Detective Mallet declared bitterly. “She’s active again.”

“But where are all the bodies?” Detective Steiner asked uneasily. The Phoenix cop and his Scottsdale counterpart stood in a taped off section of a downtown street and sidewalk smeared, stained, spotted and in some places pooled and dripping with blood and occasionally a slightly lumpier scrap of human tissue. But there was not a single victim in sight. Technically, it was Steiner’s murder scene, if that was what it was. Mallet was here as a courtesy. And because he was friends with some Wig in the State Police who would have taken the whole case away from both of them by now if not for his personal confidence in Mallet.

“Check the drains,” Mallet suggested, “she may have kicked them through the grates.” Steiner gave Mallet’s facial expression a thorough visual inspection. If he was putting him on, he was doing a damn good job. If not, he was out of his goddamn mind. He didn’t seem like he was out of his mind.

“Have you _read_ the file from Boston?” Mallet asked, following his train of thought surprisingly well. Steiner had glanced through it. Part of it anyway. “This kid is barely human,” Mallet insisted grimly.

“If it’s even the same person,” Steiner pointed out skeptically.

“Read the file from Boston,” Mallet urged gravely. “I’m going to pay another visit to Dr. Ericson.”

****

When Douglas found his lights on and his door unlocked, he grabbed a heavy wooden cane from the coat closet and felt his jacket pocket for the reassuring presence of his cell phone, just in case there wasn’t a mass murderer waiting for him upstairs. Considering the caliber of enemies he seemed to be making lately, he wondered if it wasn’t time to start carrying his gun. He relaxed a little when he saw the scant pile of blood stained women’s clothing next to the wet towel on his bathroom floor. When he was able to confirm that the young woman lying on his bed with her feet propped up and an other towel wrapped around her head watching Dragnet on TV Land was in fact fully clothed (in a pair of his drawstring workout pants and his favorite T-shirt which he would probably never see again) he relaxed a little more.

“Nice stick, Doc,” Faith said without looking up. Douglas propped the cane in the corner near the door.

“Please at least tell me it was one of Them,” he said tiredly.

“It was seven of Them,” Faith said with apparent indifference. Then, just to prove how little she cared, indicating the shirt she had on, “Is this supposed to be a windmill or a birdhouse?”

“Yes,” Douglas answered shortly, in no mood for her posturing. “Didn’t look like that much blood,” he observed calmly. He was pretty much numb to the horror of his malignant, monstrous child. He’d grown calluses over his anger, grief and shame, reducing them to little corns of resentment so that her cold-blooded criminality rankled rather than appalled him.

Faith grinned. “I only killed them a little bit,” she explained, enjoying his being rankled. “I stopped as soon as they were dead.”

Douglas shrugged. “I don’t guess you remembered to ask who they are and what they want with us?” he inquired dryly.

Faith smiled a little more toothily. “One of them lived long enough to say a few words about that, yeah.” She recited, almost proudly, “‘The Key is the Link. The link must be severed. Such is the will of God.’ And then he said that I’m the Key and the Beast wants to use me to open the Gates of Hell.”

“Jesus Christ,” Douglas muttered, again rankled where he know he ought to be appalled. They were crazier than she was. He supposed he ought to be grateful for that actually. That these men were not enforcers of any legitimate law or avengers of any lost life, that they were delusional zealots who wanted to kill his daughter over bullshit, seemed to simplify the ethics of being their enemy somewhat.

Unless of course she actually was the anti-Christ. The absurdity of this thought should have amused Dr. Ericson. Somehow it didn’t quite. Douglas hadn’t believed in God let alone demons since he was a very young child. He wasn’t about to start now. But that didn’t change the fact that he and Lennette had brought _something_ into the world that was more or less or other than ‘human’ as that term is commonly understood. He couldn’t shake the feeling that a supernatural being had to have a supernatural purpose, some dark, dread, destined task to perform.

You can frequently tell what kind of job someone has in mind to do by the particular instrument they choose: scissors for cutting, shovels for digging and so on. Faith was a Molotov cocktail. So what was it, Douglas wondered, that was about to be burned down and for what purpose? For _whose_ purpose? “Cry ‘Havoc!’...” he murmured quietly, only half hearing himself.

“Hush,” his daughter reproved him ever so slightly. “The show’s back on.” Once again, even in darkest Los Angeles, the 44 minute arc of the universe was bending towards justice.


	14. It’s All Fun’N’Games ‘Til Somebody Loses an "I"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Giles Clan prepares to host a politically crucial reception in advance of the Council Meeting, the guests of honor are discovering that repercussions of the past and other forces beyond their control are making their task even harder than they had realized. Xander discovers his feelings for Willow really have changed, while her feelings for him really haven't; but what about Oz and Cordelia. Liam and his 'family' seek the means of changing their identities. Even as Doug turns to an old friend for help dealing with Faith's problems, someone out there is helping them make powerful new enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part III: Where the Heart Is

“Why did we fight in The War?” Zanya asked. Edwards didn’t have to ask her, ‘which war,’ though they had both been involved in several. There was only one that really fascinated her. “If we were demons,” she persisted, “creatures of pure evil, why did we care?”

“We were still angry,” he said, remembering. He was angry still. “Vampires may betray their friends,” he said, “but they don’t forgive their enemies.”

“Did we ever learn what became of Celia?” she asked.

“We never tried to find out,” he said. “We didn’t care about her, only about the pain we’d felt when we lost her. Vampires love for themselves, not for others.”

“What a strange way to feel,” Zanya said, “I don’t think I can quite imagine it.”

“Don’t try,” Edwards advised earnestly. “You’re much better off as you are.”

Zanya lowered her head, pretending there was something below eye level that she needed to look at, trying too hard not to call attention to the fact that she had noticed the word he hadn't said. We. “How long has Liam been gone?” she asked as casually as she could manage, failing to hide her sudden eagerness to change the subject.

“A few hours,” he admitted. It was still a few hours until sunrise, though Edwards supposed that didn’t matter so much anymore. It still felt important.

“I just hope nothing goes wrong this time,” she worried aloud. “If at least one of us doesn’t get a job soon, we’re all going to starve to death.”

“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” he assured her. “I’ve known this guy for twenty years.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t think that a very positive endorsement of his character,” Zanya murmured.

“I suppose not,” Edwards admitted, “but trust me, he’s solid. Which is to say, he’s as good as his word in matters of business,” he hastened to clarify.

“I understood that,” said Zanya crossly. “I may not _remember_ every figure of speech I’ve ever heard, but I do still understand how they work. I haven’t suddenly become a half-wit just because I don’t know half the things you’re quoting at me anymore.”

Edwards said nothing. Because he hadn’t suddenly become a half-wit either. He knew why Zanya was so defensive about the knowledge and information he’s gained over the centuries and she hadn’t. Every day he prayed to God she wouldn’t say it. Every day he tried to show her that the fact was not the truth. Every day he tried to get his hands on the things he needed in this wretched modern world to prove that he was someone else. “God I’ll be glad to get out of this Godforsaken town!” he said aloud, almost without meaning to.

“We still need money,” she pointed out. Time passed. At last the front door opened. “Excuse me,” Zanya said, going into the bedroom and closing the door. She could hardly bear to be in the same room with Liam.

“Well?” Edwards asked, looking up from the evening paper.

Liam laid three large manila envelopes on the coffee table, tapping one with his thumb and forefinger. “Have a look,” he said. Inside were a birth certificate, Social Security card and California driver’s license for Thomas Alva Edison Edwards, born in Remedy, Wisconsin on November 4th, 1972. “That’s a real birth certificate,” Liam said. “And the right SSN. The cards are faked, obviously, but the license will run as real. It’s been hacked into the system.” Edwards didn’t dare ask how their contact had been convinced to provide such complete, and therefore expensive identity documents on credit. He opened another envelope and was confronted by the frank and frightened stare of his beloved, a photo taken two weeks ago in a booth at the mall. Beneath it was, in all likelihood, the name of a murdered child: Xenia Darlene Sapple, born in Everton Texas, July 9, 1959 and, for all official purposes, never heard from again.

****

“ _What are we doing here?” Doug asked worriedly. He needed to be in school. The beautiful woman from the Department of Education had said it was very, very important. He was important. He was pretty sure she liked him even though she was too nice to do anything about it. He hated to disappoint her._

“ _Beats me,” Faith laughed, one hand caressing the pulsing, organic surface of the cave wall. “Is this your dream or mine?” She was either sixteen years old or four and a half, neither of which made sense to Doug, who was still only eleven._

_Suddenly, the cave was shaking violently. “Stop! You’re killing her!” Doug screamed, beside himself with anguish and rage._

_Faith shrugged and smiled. “Don’t look at me,” she said. “You started it.”_

“ _I didn’t know any better!” Doug insisted unconvincingly. “I was just a kid.”_

“‘ _No one since Helen of Troy,’” she mocked him, still unnervingly amused although the walls were bleeding and breaking off in huge chunks. “Now I know it’s your dream,” she added, almost scolding. “You know I don’t know this stuff.”_

“ _You have to stop this!” Doug repeated._

“ _Yeah,” Faith agreed, still seeming indifferent, “you do.”_

Douglas got up and splashed water on his face. His heart was pounding. Dawn was not yet dreamed of. He was alone in the house. The sofa bed was folded up. Faith’s bloodstained clothes were gone. ‘This is nothing to do with you, Doug,’ Lennette had said a million years ago. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.’ He walked directly to the phone and dialed, not wanting time to think about it. His voice warn and haggard, he said, “I’m in real bad trouble. I can’t let things go on like this. I need your help.”

****

“Why don’t I make us a cup of tea?” Ms. Winston fussed nervously, as one who was not used to fussing, which indeed she was not. She was a stern, no-nonsense gray haired woman of sixty-five whom Giles remembered fondly as a stern, no-nonsense mousy haired woman of no particular age whatsoever. They hadn’t seen one another in nearly twenty years, but that wasn’t what was making her nervous. She wasn’t the sort of person one ran and hugged and made excited noises over, even after a separation of two decades, nor vise versa.

Her problem was that she didn’t quite know how to _approach_ the situation. She’d always felt vaguely motherly (or at least auntly) towards Rupert, whom she’d taken long enough to get used to thinking of as a young man and not a small boy. Considering his behavior, she felt as though she ought to be scolding him or at least pursing her lips disapprovingly, but taking into account that he was in fact a man of nearly fifty and no relation of hers whatever, to do so would have been extremely impolite. She was made to feel all the more useless by the fact that she had been given her marching orders by Mr. Giles as always but for perhaps the first time in her life she was utterly incapable of carrying them out.

Ms. Winston had been instructed by her employer to steer his scandalously young daughter-in-law into another room and “keep her busy” discussing the arrangements for the belated wedding reception he felt mysteriously compelled to host in her honor. The trouble was, the girl didn’t steer all that easily. This too was a mystery. Buffy Anne Giles née Summers of Sunnydale California didn’t seem like the kind of person who could formidably resist being steered aside or kept busy. She _seemed_ as frivolous and insubstantial as a paper pinwheel. But somehow or other when you informed her in a tone of assured authority what she was about to do, she smiled an simply didn’t. For lack of a better explanation, Ms. Winston was inclined to attribute the stiffness of her resistance to the subtle encouragement of her husband, who after all had been a pretty difficult child to steer himself by the time he was close to her age.

“I for one would love a cup of tea, thank you,” Rupert was saying, just as though he’d really thought she were addressing the room in general, offering to get everyone something, and not renewing her invitation for the young lady to join her in the other room.

“I really think we ought to go over all of the arrangements at least once,” Ms. Winston tried again, still addressing Buffy, inclining her body in a way that indicated the doorway of a small lounge off the opposite side of the reception area from Mr. Giles’ private office.

“‘The show is not the show...’” the girl murmured with casual impatience, brushing Ms. Winston aside with an offhand quote in a very Giles-like way. “Guest list,” she said to the professor, just as if she were addressing someone very slightly subordinate to her. “Whose on it? Whose coming; whose not coming? Any maybes that we need to be yeses?”

The elder Mr. Giles looked incredulously at his not quite visibly smirking son for a moment, then uncomfortably at Ms. Winston. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said half apologetically, inwardly seething, and gestured for the younger generation to join him in his inner office. “Ms. Winston is not aware of the Council and its activities,” he explained briskly when they were alone, “so I’m afraid she’s a bit mystified by the exact significance of all this.”

“And yet someone seems to have given her the impression that whatever we are doing in here urgently requires that Buffy be elsewhere,” Giles noted, a little more visibly amused.

“Yeah, I wonder who that could be,” Buffy agreed dryly. She seemed slightly less amused and a good deal more annoyed than her husband. Realizing this, Rupert sobered a little.

Andrew regarded her with cool resentment. “We’re here,” he said. “Let’s get to work.”

“Alright,” Buffy agreed just as coolly.

“The majority of the invitees are of no consequence, of course, having no association with the Council,” Andrew explained as he pulled a leather binder out of his desk drawer. “University faculty and their wives, other distinguished acquaintances of mine, a few of Rupert’s old friend who have actually managed to make something respectable out of themselves, everyone from the Museum, naturally. I simply invited them to make the event larger and more public and to avoid their being offended by misunderstanding that to which they’d not been invited. There is the added advantage of making it more difficult for those who know of or suspect the existence of the Council to try to determine its composition. I did managed, through certain contacts, to secure the Allenby House, which is still technically a private residence, despite the short notice, so at least we won't be giving away the security advantages of an invitation only event.”

Andrew opened the book to what proved to be a list of over a thousand RSVPs, positive and negative. Glancing over his shoulder, Buffy noted with a sort of stunned amusement that Stephen Hawking wasn’t able to make it. He sent his regrets. It was just as well. Willow would be spared an untimely death by jealousy. In any event, Andrew summarized, about five hundred guests had answered in the affirmative, the “plus ones” making them more than half again as many. “Jeepers,” said Buffy, “a party for eight-hundred of our closest strangers. How keen.”

“Yes, well,” Andrew reminded her crossly, “this _event_ is not being staged for your entertainment, young lady.”

“Could we please just attend to the business in hand?” Giles interjected tiredly. He received a pair of looks that told him each had taken this comment as a reproach aimed at him or herself, which made him feel suddenly reproachful towards the both of them. “How many of _our_ people are coming?” asked, dragging the combatants back to task.

“Seventy-two Enrolled Watchers—that’s out of one-hundred-twenty if you’re keeping score my dear—including five of seven Equals,” Andrew answered.

“So many?” Giles asked, pleasantly astonished.

“Along with another 148 spouses, family members, Staffers, etc.” Andrew confirmed. “Don’t read too much into it,” he warned. “I gather that many of them were not instructed one way or another regarding attendance. Some may simply be curious to see what transpires.”

“Which five?” Buffy asked levelly.

“Robson, Crowne and Davidson of course,” Andrew answered, “ _Virgil_ —which is really the most hopeful development I’ve seen so far—and (somewhat less auspiciously perhaps) Mr. Dunstan.”

Giles was suddenly aghast, “Father!” he demanded, “How could you? Why _would_ you invite that man to an occasion ostensibly in my honor?” A small bitter laugh escaped him. “I guess I needn’t bother to ask ‘Why would he come?’”

“How could I _not_ invite him?” Andrew countered testily. “We need every vote we can get in this Proceeding. I could hardly risk offending someone by _snubbing_ an Equal of the Inner Council. I never dreamed he’d do anything so rude as to accept! As a matter of fact, I invited every single member of the Inner and Outer Council. Including Bertram Dunstan.”

“Good Lord in heaven, have mercy!” Giles cried, shocked and quite literally appalled. He looked in fact as though he might faint dead away. “Surely he’s not coming as well!” Buffy had the startling sense that his use of the ‘Lord’s name’ was not whatsoever in vain. She rushed to his side. She’d rarely seen Giles so shaken up, and evidently over something that had happened more than twenty years ago.

“No, indeed he is not,” Andrew assured him, seeming embarrassed by the violence of his son’s reaction and scornful of his own embarrassment. “In fact, Dunstan seems to have instructed the rest of his House not to attend. Which suggests that he is planning something less than open combat at least.”

“I don’t see anything terribly funny in this situation!” Giles snapped, misreading his father’s expression in his agitated state.

“Nor I,” Andrew assured him impatiently. “Of course, I don’t find being blackmailed and ordered about all that amusing either,” he added tartly.

“Who’s Bertram Dunstan?” Buffy wanted to know, “Why is he so much worse than the other Dunstan?”

“My God!” Andrew chided his son harshly despite his obvious distress, “this poor child really has no idea what sort of a person she is married to, does she?”

“Back off!” Buffy snapped. “Giles, what’s _wrong_?” she asked with gentle urgency, raising her hand to his cheek.

He flinched at her almost touch and turned away. “I... need some air,” he said after a moment and strode quickly from the room.

“I wouldn’t,” Andrew advised when Buffy started to follow him. His sneer was gone. From the sound of his voice, he might have been a genuinely well meaning elder. Buffy looked back at him and hesitated, resenting his sudden less-attractiveness as a target for her confused anger. They stood in silence for a while not looking at each other. Then Andrew asked gravely, “Have you ever killed a man? A human I mean.” It wasn’t nearly a non-sequitur enough.

“I’m honestly not sure,” Buffy admitted, collapsing into a chair, taking his question and his tone at face value for lack of any clear guide to how else she might take them. She thought first of Angel (though he wasn’t human) and second of Ford, though murder wasn’t exactly the word for the role he’d forced her to play in his death. Owen Thurman’s blasted face flashed before her mind’s eye. “I killed a Terrokan Assassin one time,” she said, “Seemed to die human enough. A—a um... friend of mine tried to tell me he could have been a half demon or something—which he was ugly enough—but I think it was just scar tissue. He was just trying to make me feel better.”

Buffy felt she was expected to say more. There had been that zookeeper who had ended up dead, _mostly_ as a result of his own actions, and of course there were the woulda-coulda-shoulda saved this or that persons, but that didn’t seem to be what he meant. “I sort of killed my mom’s boyfriend one time,” she went on after an extremely short yet uncomfortable silence, “but he turned out to be a killer cyborg, so...”

“Yes, well...” Andrew didn’t seem to know quite what to make of these ambiguous revelations. Evidently they didn’t support whatever point he’d been about to make as well as he thought a yes or no answer would have.

“He killed someone,” Buffy surmised quietly. “Giles killed someone. Besides Randal. More on purpose than that. He tried to tell me once, I think. Quentin told him to, but then the Council said he shouldn’t have.”

“Dunstan’s great-nephew, Charles Font,” Andrew confirmed, very somber now, clearly regretting having brought the subject up so cavalierly a dozen minutes earlier, “his brother Bertram’s grandson. I honestly didn’t think it still bothered him that much; I didn’t think I would care if it did.” Andrew sniffed derisively at himself and shook his head. “I should have known better, of course. The worst part of being a murderer is being confronted with the misery of those one’s victim has left behind. You come to hate them, you know. You start to resent—” Andrew stopped abruptly and looked at Buffy as though he’d just remembered she was there, seeming embarrassed to realize how close he’d come to confessing his own sins to _her_ of all people.

“I... um... think I’ll go and check on Giles,” Buffy said, baring her teeth in an embarrassed imitation of a smile, not feeling an over abundance of air in the room herself.

She found him in the little sitting room she’d been so ineffectually pointed towards earlier, drinking tea and laughing with Ms. Winston. The atmosphere did indeed seem much more breathable in here despite the fact that the one small window was tightly closed. “... and then—and then Father actually says to me ‘Get down from that roof, you idiot! You ought to know better than to—to—’” Giles was laughing so hard he could hardly speak; Ms. Winston was glowing at him even though her lips were pursed. “‘To encourage them—to _encourage_ them in this—!’” he seemed to be going into convulsions, “‘in this—in this _ridiculous_ contest!’” He took a breath and bellowed, in outlandish imitation of his father, “‘AT _YOUR_ AGE!”

Ms. Winston finally let go, a bit embarrassedly, of the merry little burst of laughter she’d evidently been holding in. The timing and structure of the moment made Buffy think not all that comfortably of an orgasm. The two of them were certainly red enough in the face. It was an unnerving contrast with his recent pallor especially now that she knew what it was that had so deeply affected him only to be so quickly forgotten.

“Oh... erm Buffy,” Giles murmured, suddenly both self-conscious and grave. “Is everything alright?”

“That’s just what I was going to ask you,” she said in a mildly, pleasantly accusing voice of satin and irony.

“Oh, erm I’m all right now,” he assured her, smiling sheepishly.

“I can see that,” she agreed, sweet over tart, like a Granny Smith apple.

“Just needed a bit of a breather,” he added, taking her hand in his and kissing it as she sat down next to him. He sounded relieved, evidently deciding that the moment was past and could now be charitably forgotten. ‘Every once in a while, he has a bad day.’

Buffy wondered if he assumed Andrew had lied to her on his behalf or that she was enough of an airhead to be put off without an explanation. She decided to try not to think about it too hard. In fact, she tried to tell herself, maybe he knew that was what she was doing and appreciated it. After all, what good would grief and remorse and long explanations do anyone at a time like this?

“Come on,” she said pulling him gently to his feet, “we still have work to do.”

****

“Will you do it?” Doug asked without preamble to moment Eva opened her door. His voice was casual but his eyes were desperate.

Eva glanced around the empty hallway uneasily. It was not yet six a.m. There was not a soul in sight, but still... “Come inside,” she said.

Douglas smiled faintly and complied. After all, they hanged the doctor who set John Wilkes Booth’s leg. “Will you see her?” he repeated, a little more calmly.

“No,” she said flatly. She stood stiffly in the entryway, not sitting or offering him a seat.

“I know it’s dangerous...” Douglas conceded, groping for a counterpoint. As reasonable as her refusal was, he hadn’t been expecting it.

“And pointless, more to the point,” Eva said. “From what you’ve told me, I doubt she’s ready to accept my help or anyone else’s.”

“My daughter is very sick,” Douglas said quietly, looking deeply into her eyes. Eva turned her eyes away. She refrained from pointing out that his concern was remarkable in a ‘parent’ who had steadfastly maintained throughout all the years she’d know him, including several times when the point was extremely relevant, that he had no children. She could see that his pain and desperation were genuine. But she couldn’t let emotion cloud her judgment.

“I’d risk my life or my license if I thought I had a chance of saving her,” Eva assured him, “I really would, but I don’t think it can be done, not under these conditions. She belongs in a secure treatment facility with access to appropriate medications and intensive daily therapy. You can’t change that by convincing me to try something stupid and unethical on a haphazard, outpatient basis. That being the case, I don’t want to have to lie about the whereabouts of a fugitive. I already had to tell that Mallet character that I believed you were telling the truth about not having contact with her. And I don’t want to struggle the rest of my life with whether or not to rat her out if she keeps killing people either. That’s your responsibility, not mine. The reason I never had children is because I didn’t want any.”

Eva smarted from the wounded look Douglas was giving her, feeling guilt for making that last comment knowing it would draw blood. ‘You never wanted them either you son-of-a-bitch,’ a part of her wanted to shout, ‘you just wanted it to be my fault.’ But she knew herself well enough to know that she was stirring up that old conflict because she felt more justified in her position in it than in the current one. She was using anger to combat her guilt for leaving Douglas flat when he was begging for her help in the name of love. She warned herself to pull back a little. Her refusal was logical and ethical. She didn’t need to pick a fight, to cast a friend as an enemy, in order to justify it.

“I think you’re being pretty rough on a twelve-year-old kid,” he joked, or rather, pretended to.

“I think you’re being pretty hard on a forty-two year-old woman,” Eva parried sharply, savagely, feeling the need to express her resentment despite her revelation of a moment before. She was forty-seven now.

“I’m not claiming you _owe_ me anything,” Douglas snapped bitterly. “I’m _asking_ for your help! As a favor for Christ’s sake!”

“I know,” Eva said, dropping her gaze again. “But I can’t help you.”

“They’re going to _kill_ her!” Douglas pleaded.

“I’m sorry,” Eva whispered.

“Yeah,” Doug told her, his voice as hard and flat as a slap to the face, “You sure are.”

****

Willow awoke to the sound of the doorbell ringing. It took her a moment to remember where she was and who was sleeping beside her. The storm outside had subsided to a steady, hard, voluminous rain. Willow was still dressed. The ringing was aggressive, urgent. She went downstairs without her slippers, her hair uncombed. “Oh,” she said when she saw who was at the door.

“Hey,” Xander replied trading his near panicked expression for a lopsided, half-hopeful grin. He was soaked to the skin, wet hair plastered to his forehead. He’d been fumbling in his pocket for his key, no longer willing to await an invitation.

“Do you know what time it is?” she grumbled, standing aside for him to come in. He did.

“5:08,” he said. “It took me three minutes to drive over here and five minutes to wake you up. I’d have come sooner, but my mom has a little piece of paper that says she’s supposed to call the cops if I leave the house before five. You know my mom can’t stand up to a little piece of paper. It has a seal on it and everything.”

Willow gave him a look that said she was mildly annoyed yet subtly emotionally tenderized by his endearingly pathetic attempts to amuse her. Xander grinned oafishly, which increased this utterly intended effect. “I came this close to showing up with a boom box,” he said, “but I figured it would just piss you off.” They continued to stand there for a moment three feet inside the front door.

“Xander, what do you want?” Willow asked at last, confusion making her cross as it usually did.

Xander, who was no stranger to confusion, was flustered and excited by his. He started to pace around the living room to have something to do with his nervous energy. “I want _you_ , Willow,” he said at last, still pacing. “All of you. Maybe not now and forever, but maybe so, and definitely soon and for the foreseeable future.”

Willow sniffed and gave her head a little shake, somewhere between disbelief and disapproval. “A month ago you were going to marry _Cordelia_!” she challenged.

“That was a month ago,” he said. “She doesn’t want to marry me. She doesn’t want to see me anymore. And I’m glad,” he lied seeing that his answer up to that point had made Willow angrier. “It would have been a mistake.” He suspected this might be true, actually, but it still felt like he was lying. “I mean, who are we kidding?” he heard himself saying. “We don’t fit, not like you and me. Willow, you’ve always been my best friend, and that’s great, but I know you’ve always wanted to be more and I just realized how great _that_ would be and what an idiot I was not to see it before.” That, at least, was true.

“And I know you have something with Oz,” he went on plaintively, “And maybe it’s too late, maybe he’s the better man and I should just stay out of it and let you two be happy, but see, maybe not. I mean, Willow, you don’t seem all that happy. And I don’t see Oz anywhere around here. If he was really the person who was going to make you happy, don’t you think you’d call him when you needed help? I mean, I know I said ‘lie to him,’ but that was when I thought it was just the past we were talking about. If you can never tell him what’s really going on in your life, how’s that supposed to work? Willow, I want to be here, I want to help, I want to be a part of your life, rats and all. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Willow sat down in Ira’s recliner. “I don’t know what to think,” she said quietly without looking at him. “I don’t know how to feel. It took me so long to give up on the possibility that... and I thought I finally had. I thought I was getting on with my life.” She shook her head. “And then all you have to do is _look_ at me. It’s not fair!” She looked up into his eyes at last. “I love you, Xander. I always have. I always will. But mostly what that means to me is that you have the power to rip me apart inside and there’s nothing I can do to stop you. I don’t want to be ripped apart anymore! I don’t want to be your maybe or let’s see or better than nothing or good enough for now!

“I thought I loved Oz. I think I still might, and it’s painful and confusing. And I told myself yesterday that I shouldn’t be with anyone, that I needed to be alone and figure things out. And I told _Oz_ that, and ever since I did that I’ve had this feeling like I ripped myself in half for no good reason, but I still think it’s true. I _don’t_ know who I am. I _don’t_ know what I want. I don’t know if I can be what _you_ want. And I _miss_ Oz. And I miss _Amy_ even though she treated me like crap and I sort of hated her for a while and the whole rat thing horrifies me and I don’t know _how_ to be a father and I sure as _Hell_ don’t know how to be a mother, even to a person, let alone a bunch of rats! And I like girls! I mean I ‘Like Girls’, as much as I ‘Like Boys’ maybe more, and I never told anybody that except Amy and I don’t know what to do about any of it!”

Xander sat in the other chair. He was stunned. “Well, I like girls too,” he said after a while, “So at least we have that in common. That’s something we can build on.” Willow gave him her sweetest skeptical look. It made him want to kiss her. “I want to kiss you,” he said. “And considering everything we’ve both just said, I think that says a lot. Willow, everything I do is on impulse. That’s the way I run. If I had to wait to have a logical reason and think things through, I’d never do anything. My poor little brain would fall out.”

He stood and walked over to her chair and knelt down beside her. “And I don’t know what’s going to happen about any of this,” he said, taking her hands and looking into her eyes. “Not about all the school and jobs and jail and probation and rats and spells and parents and all of the girls we both like and all of the boys you like, but when we find out, I want us to do it together. And to find out about things together too,” he added, unable to resist a good cheap pun. “I’m serious about this,” he added, smiling at her slight unfrowning towards a smile. “Willow, I love you. I need you in my life, more than anybody or anything else and I don’t see how that’s ever gonna change.”

“What if Cordelia Chase walked in here right now and said her father changed his mind and she wants to marry you with his blessing and make you so rich you never have to work or do math again?” Willow challenged.

Xander looked down at their two pairs of clasped hands. He seriously considered lying, but at this proximity, he knew she would be able to tell. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “but that’s never going to happen, so what difference does it make?”

Willow thought about this for a moment. “It feels like it makes a difference,” she said, “but not enough for me to be able to say ‘no’ to you.”

“I promise not to go with other girls if you don’t,” Xander said. He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never _in_ Scouts,” Willow reminded him. “You said it looked too much like work.” She couldn’t keep from smiling. Xander knew a willingly surrendering Willow when he saw one. He rose on his haunches, getting halfway to his feet, and kissed her lips, enjoying the taste of her as the kiss became more open and more passionate. He continued to rise and then descended, joining her in the recliner, more fully reclining it. His hands found their way from her cheeks to her breasts. The kiss was still going on. He loved her. He was about to make love to her. The thought excited him a lot. His cock was a solid fuel rocket booster.

Willow seemed just as excited. They were undressing and caressing each other with all of the enthusiasm of salmon swimming upstream. She tensed a little more than he expected when he pulled down her underpants and ran his hand up the inside of her thighs towards the headwaters of the river of life. But she didn’t pull away. With hands that were shaking just a little she took a hold of his penis and caressed it lovingly. When she was as soft and wet as he was stiff and swollen they joined their bodies together. He remembered being told that he didn’t have to worry about using a condom. He didn’t worry about it. They worked their bodies passionately against one another to the rhythm of a harmonious universe. He came inside of her and used his fingers and what was left of his wilting erection to help bring her tumbling after. Neither had slept well during the night. Despite the increasing daylight, they both slept now, warm and peaceful in each other’s arms.

****

Buffy and Giles walked along a crowded sidewalk beside a narrow London street, headed for a particular shopping district Ms. Winston had recommended, continuing their desperate search for a dress in which Buffy would feel beautiful and at ease, or at least presentable for such a large formal gathering at which attention was to be focused so squarely upon her. They had decided to take the underground as much to assess the level of vampire activity at mid-afternoon as to save the price of a taxi. “There’s the station entrance just there,” Giles said, mainly for something to say. The sky was brooding in its own gloom and so was Buffy.

“Dr. and Mrs. Rupert S. Giles,” she mumbled displeasedly, not for the first time. “I could be anybody. I could be Gwendolyn Post. I could be nobody at all.”

“You didn’t even want to look at the invitations,” he reminded her. “You said it wasn’t important.”

“I just kind of _assumed_ my _name_ would be on there somewhere.” She continued to grouse. Giles stopped himself short of arguing that it was, of pointing out that she was the one who’d wanted to change her name in the first place, of defending the use of traditional formalities where the Council was concerned on general principals.

“What are you a doctor of anyway?” she half scolded him. “How did I not know that I was married to a doctor of something?”

“History,” he replied, ignoring her quarrelsome mood which he was almost sure had a good deal less to do with the invitations than she was letting on. “University of London, 1979. I wrote a doctoral dissertation on the use of language as a weapon in the wars of the twentieth century.”

They descended into the depths of the Earth in silence, single file, like Orpheus and Eurydice, but the other way round. They approach the platform and stood waiting for the next train. Giles studied his timetable. “Did they all die laughing?” Buffy asked conversationally, without looking back.

“Did—?” Giles was puzzled for a millisecond, then his face cracked into a wide smile. “No,” he replied, “but one of the Committee did have to spend several weeks in hospital.” He chuckled a little in relief as she turned around grinning, eyes twinkling mischievously at him. He caught her in his arms, kissed and hugged her. “I love you, Mrs. Rupert S. Giles!” he declared.

“I love you, Dr. Buffy Anne Summers,” she replied.

“An honor!” he replied, “an absolute honor, I assure you! One I never dreamed of!”

****

Zanya lay in the artificial darkness of the tightly shuttered room listening to the exaggerated ticking of the clock on the wall above her bed and wondered if she had gone insane. None of it made any sense. If she and Tommy had both been killed, had both risen again as the spawn of demons, had both been redeemed by a miracle and given a second chance to live again in this strange new world, why had she forgotten all the years that bound her nightmare past to her dreamscape future? And why did he remember them? It didn’t add up. It bothered her.

What bothered her most was that it didn’t bother Tommy. Which meant that he knew the whys and the wherefores in every last detail and was simply choosing not to tell her. Or that this tangled mass of unreal reality was all in her head and he was humoring her that the life she imagined she was living really existed. It was not possible to imagine that Tommy of all people was simply unbothered by the discrepancy. How many times had she heard his mother screech at him, at both of them, “You think too much! You’re too damn ‘smart’ for your own good! Things are the way they are; you can’t change things by ‘thinking’ about them different!”? This from a woman who had no better sense than to set her babes to suckle as the breast of her bitterest enemy just because her presence in the house had been explained by the fact that she was “the nurse.”

But Tommy was hardly his father’s son, let alone his mother’s. He was Zanya’s child, and she had raised him to think about why things were the way they were, both how they had gotten to be that way and for what purpose, for _whose_ purpose. Even the thick, twisted cords of love and malice that bound him to her, that pulled him in and held him in the space in her heart where her own son had been cut out, he had puzzled through, had come to understand, to loath and to cherish. Now, suddenly, he was unbothered by the fact that she had forgotten more than two and a half centuries of life (or rather un-life) that he just as inexplicably remembered.

Or not so inexplicably. Zanya shivered in the warmth of her lovers arms. If it was a demon and not a man who had lived those years, a tiny, too rational voice hissed in the ear of her mind, perhaps it was the demon and not the man who remembered them. ‘Don’t try to find out what you don’t want to know’ warned an even smaller, deliberately irrational voice. “I think too much,” Zanya murmured aloud. She tried not to. But either she was crazy, or too damned smart for her own good.

****

“You’re awfully quiet,” Gale said when the limousine was half way between Heathrow and home. Elaine looked up from her knitting, but it was clear she was talking to Peter. A few more seconds passed. The silence was so oppressive that even Quentin shifted slightly under its weight.

“A lot on my mind,” Peter said at last without looking up. He was thumbing through a handwritten volume several centuries old. Gale watched her son a moment longer, until her husband looked at her as if her concern were somehow unseemly. She went back to staring out the window.

****

The train ride across London was an eventful one. Giles had the job of distracting passengers and transit workers on no less than three occasions within half an hour while his young wife lured or manhandled what everyone else thought was a human being into some dark corner to stab them to death. By the time the train reached its destination, he was having to make such a fuss about some poor woman’s large handbag sticking out into the aisles that they were in danger of being ejected. Buffy returned from the empty other end of the car brushing off the dust of what had recently appeared to be a homeless purveyor of ‘The Big Issue’ London’s second best and first most Socialist Socialist newspaper. “Come on, _Honey_ , just let it go,” she said, perfectly feigning annoyed embarrassment as she took Giles by the arm and lead him from the train.

She handed him the paper as they walked up a narrow, sloping street lined with tiny flowering trees and rows of sparkling glass and metal shops crammed with some of the most expensive clothing in the world. He laughed. “They're using vampires now? That’s taking solidarity a bit too far if you ask me.”

“All these artificial distinctions are just barriers put up by the oppressor class to keep the workers from uniting,” Buffy teased gravely.

“I’ve seen the light!” Giles laughed as he tossed the paper in a trash can that had been made as minimally ugly as possible by the addition of a decoratively intermittent wooden sheath and a little peaked wooden roof. “We’ll unite with all the downtrodden creatures of the night to kill and eat the rich and powerful. Then we won’t have to bugger around with the Council anymore.”

“It might make a pretty good plan B, actually,” said Buffy, mock-philosophically. “There is one slight problem, though We’re not actually poor. I mean, I’m pretty sure people who own real estate on more than one continent automatically qualify for lifetime membership in the oppressor class, even without shopping in this neighborhood.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” he argued with all the false gravity he could muster. “In the last two months I’ve lost two jobs and a professional license, tripled the size of my household, alienated a slew of influential friends, committed half a dozen felonies, crashed a perfectly good car and had an extended stay in an American hospital. I am now the unemployed, uninsured, and precariously close to undocumented spouse of a pregnant teenager. Honestly, what more can I do to prove my commitment to joining the underclass?” The quality of Buffy’s silence, the slight lengthening of her stride so that he was a little behind instead of beside her told Giles he had taken the joke too far, gotten too close to her nearly reasonable fear that their lives actually were an irreparable mess and that he blamed her for it. “I’m terrible at ironic humor,” he apologized. “It always seems to come across as blistering sarcasm. I don’t always mean it to be.”

Buffy stopped and looked up at him miserably. “I know your life sucks because of me,” she said. “I’m not an idiot.” There were tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, okay!”

“Well here’s a newsflash,” he said firmly, pulling her, unresisting, into his arms. “I’m not. And I never will be. No matter what the Council does or tried to do to us. No matter what we have to do in response. I’d sooner live in Hell with you than in Heaven with any other woman in the universe. If I gripe about the way things are, it’s only the natural human tendency to want to skip the hard parts and get to the bits where we can relax and enjoy each other. It isn’t ever because I want to go back to being the lonely, miserable sod I was before you loved me. Alright?”

“Alright,” she agreed trying to smile. Giles kept a reassuring arm around her as they entered a small boutique. He was vigilant, ready to intercept and forestall the comments of any snotty shop assistants regarding Buffy’s youth and her current ensemble. Now that he’d oafishly undone nearly all of the cheering up that they had manage before getting on the train, he could tell she was once again bubbling with insecurity and resentment waiting to burst forth into anger and indignation at the first snide remark.

****

Willow awoke to the smell of breakfast cooking, but she didn’t go into the kitchen right away. She told herself she had a few things to do first. The truth was she wanted to prolong the time she had in which to think that Xander was happy with his decision. To delay the inevitable discovery of his regret. She went upstairs and put on clean clothes then swallowed hard and walked into to her parents old bedroom, which belonged to Amy and her offspring now. She’d meant to clean out their excrement, replenish their bedding, top up the food dish and fill the water bottle. These things had already been done. Her pulse quickened, her heart sank and her stomach turned over all at the same time.

Willow looked at the bedside clock, it was nearly nine a.m. She was torn between gratitude and guilt. Gratitude because Xander cared for her enough and knew her well enough to do exactly what she needed. Guilt because there were some things a guy just shouldn’t have to do for a girl. Like cleaning up after her monstrous Ex and their subhuman progeny. Ira pressed his tiny face and hands to the bars and squeaked at her in a way that made her feel reproved, which wasn’t hard. “Alright, _non-human_ she conceded grudgingly.” He went back to what he was doing, which was sniffing experimentally at the food dish. Willow smiled and stroked his furry head through the bars. “Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up,” she advised gravely. “It doesn’t solve as many problems as you might think.”

By the time Willow got downstairs, Xander was setting brimming plates of eggs and turkey bacon on the table. He was wearing a pair of ‘Willard’s’ jeans and a T-shirt plus a frilly white apron which might once have technically belonged to Sheila but which only Ira Rosenberg had ever worn. He was grinning broadly. He was whistling. Willow could have cried. As soon as he put the plates down she threw her arms around him and hugged him. “You didn’t have to do all this,” she said as he wrapped his arms around her and looked down into her upturned face. “I know how you feel about turkey bacon.”

He kissed her gently on the lips and smiled. “Well I couldn’t make toast,” he pointed out. “Some crazy person went and threw all the bread away for some reason. Not a crumb left in the house; I looked. Besides, it needs eating,” he reminded her a little more seriously, a subtle reference to the fact that there was about to be no one home for a very long time. “I can learn to be flexible. Especially now that I’m finding out what money costs.”

Suddenly, once again, Willow had tears in her eyes. She clung to him tightly and laid her damp face against his chest. “Why would you _want_ to be with me,” she said. “I keep screwing everything up.”

Xander laughed, “Whereas my life would be perfect and normal otherwise? Listen,” he said after a minute, lifting her face gently so that he could look her in the eyes again. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell you something for like a month and a half now. And then I woke up a while ago and there you were all perfect and asleep and beautiful, and I started thinking about the first day we ever met. Cause I thought you were beautiful then too. And you were, and you are. Only you didn’t think so then either. Cause like the first five minutes we were there you broke that stupid yellow crayon and you tried to hide it, but the teacher found it. And you cried like it was the end of the world, and you kept saying ‘I messed it up. I always mess everything up.’”

Willow smiled remembering, “And Miss Jordan was just standing there like she didn’t know what to do with me, and then you looked her right in the eyes and took the red crayon and broke it in half and smiled, and I thought you’d gone completely crazy, but then she laughed and told us to break all of the crayons in half so there’d be enough for everybody to gets the colors they wanted without waiting.”

“But, see, my point is this,” Xander went on. “You did make a mistake but it wasn’t the end of the world and even if it was, it still wouldn’t be all your fault because the world shouldn’t be as easy to break as that. And things are messed up here, I get that. Things are broken and part of the reason is that you made some mistakes, but that’s not all of the reason. You’re not responsible for what _monsters_ like Spike and Angel do, or for Amy being the way she was even if they were reacting to things that you did part of the time. And I know Sheila’s not a crayon, she’s a person, and your mom and if she never gets better, there’s no way to pretend that that’s okay. But if you can’t love the person who made you feel like you were worth less than a two cent lump of wax, like you ought to be thrown away for making one mistake, whose fault is that?

“She’s a fool, and I was a fool. Because I believed you when you told me you were nothing special and lucky to have me around. But that’s not the truth. You’re beautiful and brilliant and a goddess of love, and I am the lucky one and always have been. So here we are again and the music’s stopping and there’s one chair left and I don’t see why we can’t sit in it together. I mean, that’s sort of the point of all this running around in circles, don’t you think?”

Willow looked up at him, her eyes brimming with love and a sort of quiet, regretful contentment. “The food’s getting cold,” she said, but she said it in a way that meant ‘yes.’

****

Thankfully, after only three hours and five shops, _most_ of which were staffed by polite, businesslike sales people, they found what they were looking for. “You are a vision!” Giles declared, twirling her by one hand before the full length mirror. The shimmering iridescent fabric, though more blue than green, flattered and intensified the color of her eyes. The fitted bust and full, layered skirt were suggestive of a wedding gown despite the color and it’s falling a couple of inches above the floor, even without the addition of high-heals, the perfect pair of which, he was assured she already had waiting at Andrew’s. “It’ll have to be let out just a little in the waist of course,” Giles murmured critically, though his overall tone remained one of admiration.

“I don’t know,” Buffy teased, “Maybe form fitting is the way to go. Maybe it’ll help with the sympathy vote.”

“It is _supposed_ to be a wedding reception,” he reminded her. “Perhaps it’s best if we don’t put too fine a point on...”

“Fact that I’m an enormous slut?” Buffy finished, her mock-cheerful tone maybe just a little more tart than usual.

“I’m being insensitive again,” Giles surmised in a tone he meant to be apologetic but which carried just a hint of ‘you’re being too sensitive again.’ despite his best intentions. Thankfully, Buffy let it go, but her mood was far from buoyant.

“Why don’t we see if there’s a wrap or a cover you’d like to have with that?” Pamela, the saleswoman, suggested. She was mildly uncomfortable, not because her customer was pregnant and clearly less than half her husband’s age or even _so_ much because she doubted that they were within two tiers of the same social class, as because they both seemed poised to be unhappy with one another as soon as they had just a bit more justification. Also she felt intrusive alluding even indirectly to the poor girl’s scars.

“No!” said the husband firmly, suddenly radiating a sort of defiant affection and awe. “Let them see!” he advised his wife. Gently, reverently, he traced the line of the oldest and least vivid of the bite marks his fingers trembling ever so slightly as if coming into contact with something holy. There was a sort of electric charge to the moment that made Pamela’s heart want to beat fast despite the fact that she had no idea what these self-evident souvenirs of horror were meant to prove, or to whom.

The girl shrugged away from his touch, annoyed, embarrassed. He caught her by the arms and looked directly into her eyes. “Let them see,” he repeated with the kind of intensity that made Pamela worry that this whole business was going to somehow end with the police being called. “They are the ones who ought to be ashamed,” he added, as if in the grip of a sudden revelation, “Let’s make sure they know it!”

****

Oz finished his breakfast, got up from the kitchen table and put his coat on.

“Don’t go,” Connie advised flatly.

“Nothing to lose,” he said.

“You’re wrong about that,” she told her son seriously.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “She needs help.”

“But she doesn’t want it,” Connie argued. “Girls don’t tell you to leave them alone because they want you to chase them. And if you find one that does, run like hell.”

“I’ll be back before lunchtime,” Oz said. “Or I’ll call.”

“I’ll be here,” Connie said.

Willow didn’t answer the doorbell right away. Oz waited. More than five minutes passed. He could see what he thought was Sheila’s car parked in the driveway. Which was weird considering they had a two car garage. And anyway, last he knew Xander had borrowed Ira’s car.

Oh.

The door opened. Willow’s smile was tortured. Oz wasn’t trying to smell anything. But he did. It occurred to him that now would be an excellent time to be anywhere else. But it seemed like motion could lead to action, which would not be a good thing. Instead he stood very, very still and closed his eyes.

“Are you alright?” Willow asked. Xander was still there, nearby, hovering and very, very worried. Tense. Not angry, but the kind of scared that’s ready to fight. Willow was worried and guilty and sad and scared. But not nearly as scared as she should have been. He should walk away, Oz knew. He should turn and walk away. She was waiting for an answer. Turn and walk away. Turn and walk away. He felt her reaching towards him. Her fingers were about to brush his face. Suddenly his eyes were open and staring into hers, their faces almost touching. He was holding her by the wrist. She gave a little cry of pain and surprise. Oz growled. He could have snapped her arm in half. He might have.

“Let her go!” Xander shouted, suddenly at her side, in his face. Oz pushed Willow out of his way. She fell to the ground with another miserable, mewling little cry and scrambled backwards a step before staggering to her feet and disappearing inside the house. The two men were on the ground; grappling, trading blows, Xander cursing, Oz snarling. Oz’s face was longer, sharper, a little less human than a minute ago. Xander made a sound of startled terror between a scream and a shout. He was holding Oz by the collar bone with both hands while the almost-wolf-man snapped viciously, trying to reach his face or throat. Xander’s shirt and the flesh of his arms were being torn by sharpening claws. He wanted desperately to back off, but he didn’t dare let go.

Suddenly Oz was drenched by a bucket of water that splashed Xander incidentally in the face. “ _To ti esti essentia est_!” Willow shouted, standing over them. Both men were stunned. Willow grabbed Xander by the shoulder and tugged him in the direction of the open front door. Oz began to writhe and to snarl again. He was becoming wolfier by the second. Willow and Xander fled inside and locked the door behind them.

“What was that!?!” Xander demanded, between a gasp and a shriek.

“Bad Latin and worse Greek?” Willow squeaked, then whined miserably as Oz threw his full weight against the flimsy wooden door and its pitifully cheap deadbolt roaring with rage. One more blow like that and he would be inside. Willow grabbed Xander’s hand and ran for the garage, by way of the kitchen. “It was supposed to make him _not_ do that!” she wailed.

From the kitchen, they heard the door implode. “I don’t have me keys!” Willow shouted. “My keys are upstairs! My _mom_ is upstairs! My rats!” They were in the garage now, still running but without far to run and no plan. Xander fumbled along the wall near the door until he found a switch to raise the garage door. Willow was too panicked and he was too panicked to ask her. He glimpsed Oz, fully wolfed out now, crashing through the kitchen, hard and fast.

“Heads up!” he shouted, tossing Willow Ira’s keys. She was three or four feet closer to the driveway. Fortunately, he hadn’t locked the doors. It was clear they didn’t need to worry about anyone upstairs; Oz was right behind them and not slowing up. Xander slammed him in the face with the door of the Lexis as he jumped inside. Oz held on and was dragged for half a dozen feet as Willow lurched into the street, tires squealing.

“I don’t think he’s taking it very well!” Xander panted. Oz chased them down the street, loping like a greyhound. Willow was doing nearly forty, taking side streets through the residential neighborhoods to avoid the noontime traffic. Oz was a car length behind her. He wasn’t losing or gaining. “Speed up!” Xander shouted.

Willow shook her head. “I’m wearing him out,” she explained. Sure enough, within a quarter mile Oz started to fall behind. Willow slowed to thirty-five, thirty, twenty five, twenty, fifteen as the chase continued. They were five miles out, getting close to the Sunnydale Country Club, when they heard a squeal of tires and horrible yelp. Xander looked through the back glass as Willow slammed on the breaks. Oz was lying in the road, a naked, bleeding human. Willow made Xander wait in the Lexis while she went back to check his vital signs.

Two ladies in a golf cart and pastel pants suits were staring, aghast. “I thought it was a dog,” the driver was repeating in a despondent loop, “I thought it was a dog.”

Willow looked the passenger dead in the eyes. “Call 9-1-1,” she ordered in an amazing tone of calm, assured authority. The woman fumbled in her purse for her cellular phone. Oz was breathing. Willow laid her ear to his chest and didn’t hear any gurgles or wheezes. His heart was beating fast, but slowing rapidly towards normal. He was bleeding, but not badly. “He’ll be okay, I think.” she assured the driver. “He might have a concussion or some broken bones.”

“I thought it was a dog,” the woman repeated, trembling, bone-white hands still gripping the steering wheel, shaking her head, “I thought it was a dog.” Her daughter(?) had gotten through to the dispatcher and was confirming their location. She looked up when she heard the sound of something hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes. “My God!” the older woman gasped as another badly bleeding young man ran to scoop the young woman up from where she lay, fainted on the pavement.

****

“What’s the matter?” Giles asked at last, after twenty minutes of watching Buffy poke at the dinner he’d made for her.

“Nothing,” Buffy said extremely unconvincingly. Mercifully, Andrew had left a message on the machine saying he was going to have dinner with an old friend and would be back very late. Miraculously, Robson had called to say that Quentin had called for a special meeting in secret session to ‘take evidence of the Slayer regarding the Recommendations against her husband,’ an obvious first step towards calling for their recession. Yet Buffy continued to brood.

Giles sighed. She was more than merely annoyed, he knew that much. She hadn’t been at all bashful that afternoon about sharing her pique over everything from how he spoke to strangers regarding her to how much he and his father drank while they were working. The fact that Joyce still hadn’t returned her call of more than twenty-four hours ago probably wasn’t helping, but there was clearly more to it than that.

“We both know nothing is going to turn out to be something,” he said crossly. “You’ve been brooding all day. Can we please just have it out now and not at three a.m.? I’ve only had a few hours’ sleep and even if I do manage to squeeze in a couple more by then, I expect to be at least a little bit drunk and you will have just been grilled by the Inner Council.” Silence reigned again, for so long a moment that Giles was tempted to say more, if only had known what to say.

“How many people have you killed?” Buffy asked.

“You told me once you didn’t care about that,” he reminded her. He was ashamed and he resented it.

“You told me you were a ‘thug’,” she countered. “You didn’t tell me you were an assassin.”

Giles looked up into her eyes. She looked heartbreakingly disappointed in him. Somehow he didn’t think she’d like to hear an explanation of the relative brutality of the Thugee of India and the followers of Hassan-i Sabbah. “I’ve been responsible for mistakes and bad decisions that have lead to probably a dozen deaths, some of which you already know about,” he admitted. “Directly and deliberately? I’ve killed two men, or _boys_ more like, including Randal. The other one was Charles Font, and I can see in your eyes that Andrew’s already told you that much.”

“But why?” Buffy asked plaintively, “Just because Quentin told you to? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would you listen to him?”

“There are a lot of answers to that question,” he said. “I honestly thought at the time it ‘needed to be done,’ but I’d be giving myself too much credit to list that as a significant reason. Because I was doing a very good job of learning to follow orders is closer to the truth. Because I wanted so very badly to be accepted back into the fold, to have back the opportunities that I had squandered, to be put back into a position in which it might conceivably be possible to someday win back my father’s respect. Or win it in the first place more accurately. Well and, in a way, it was a relief to surrender my own moral judgment. To make believe I didn’t have a choice, since I’d been so busily doing other things I was ashamed to admit I had a choice about.

“I knew Charles only slightly, but I did know him. We were distantly related. Actually, a little less distantly than I had any reason to know at the time, but still not close. He was my age, but we’d gone to different schools. God! We were _twenty-four_!” He said it the way Buffy would have said ‘eleven’. “We thought we were oh so very grown up cynical men of the world, the both of us. We both had our ideas of what we were pretty well worked out. He was Beyond Good and Evil; I was the Left Hand of Justice. We were children shadow boxing our parents.

“I stabbed him in the chest with a long hunting knife. I didn’t think it would do to be seen carrying a sword on the night an acquaintance was murdered, and I didn’t want to do anything so noisy as driving a car. I _talked_ to him first. My God! I gave him a lecture! He was justly contemptuous, but there was nothing he could do to stop me. He was naked and unarmed. I had about forty pounds on him and slightly better training. I sat down next to him on his bed. I told him in highly overwrought and self-righteous language what a terrible human being he had been and that he was beyond all hope of redemption. He scoffed at my moral ideas and told me a little of what he thought of my character. Then I stuck my knife between his ribs and into his heart just about the way you would stake a vampire. Then I held him in my arms while he bled to death.

“I realized, a second after I killed him, not before, how little there was to choose between us in any real moral sense. I imagined myself being... limited to my life up to that point, as Charles was, judged for all eternity on those twenty-four years alone. What I saw was damnation. I knew I had to get out from under Travers while I still hoped to have a soul worth saving. I begged my father to help me, but he turned me away. Though he didn’t say it in so many words, I felt I was being told it was already too late.

“When I got home, Gwendolyn was sitting up waiting for me. She knew I’d gone out to do something terrible, though I hadn’t told her exactly what. It was no mystery though when she saw me. I hadn’t changed my clothes, I’d only put Charles’s overcoat on over them, but she knew even before I took the coat off. She asked me whom I had killed, and I told her. That was the first time it occurred to me that they had the same name; they were not close relatives. But she repeated the name a couple of times and then said what I’d been thinking, which was, ‘It could have been any of us.’”

“She wanted to run away, leave the country in the middle of the night and have no more to do with the Council. Considering the... direction her life has taken since, I’m no longer sure she had the wrong idea, but I certainly thought so at the time.” Giles made a noise of bitter self derision. “I still thought I was ‘destined’ to be a Watcher because Andrew and Helena an good old ‘Saint Peter’ had told me so.

“That was when we hit upon the plan of taking our complaints directly to the Council, as a sort of compromise, I suppose. Even then I knew Gwendolyn was hoping they’d throw us out. I wish I’d had sense enough... no I wish I’d had _integrity_ enough to tell her that night that my destiny didn’t necessarily have anything to do with hers. I already knew, when it came right down to it, I could take her or leave her. I did leave her, but for her sake not soon enough. Not before I’d cheated on her and greatly abused the trust and affection of another young woman in the process, as long as I’m confessing my sins.

“So this is the man you married, Buffy. A maudlin, self-pitying old murderer with a history of failing to stand by women who have stood by him in some very dire circumstances. I can tell you that’s not the way I’ve behaved lately, not the way I expect to behave in the future. But there is nothing I can do to change the past.”

It was a long time before Buffy spoke and when she did her voice was quiet, somber and resolved. “When I said I didn’t care about your past,” she said, “I honestly didn’t think it could be that bad. Because when I see you now, when I see the things you do and say and care about, that’s not the person I see. But I meant what I said. Not that I literally don’t care, because I do. It bothers me that you killed this man. It hurts me that you did that to yourself. It scares me that you could still say the things you said to Xander knowing that you’d done all of that. It makes me angry. But I love you. And I respect you. And I believe you are a good person. I _know_ you are. Knowing the things you’ve done doesn’t change that. It just hurts.”

****

“ _Quentin_ , has called a meeting to reconsider the Recommendations against _Rupert_ ,” Dunstan grumbled, adjusting his lap blanket resenting the fact that he actually needed one when sitting in his garden on a perfectly fine Spring evening, “And I am _commanded_ to appear tonight at midnight for that purpose! Is that the gist of what you’ve come to tell me?”

“Is it not still true that any Equal of the Inner Council may call and all of us shall come?” Davidson asked blandly. He had been accorded the honor of bringing this news by the unanimous (and indeed quite enthusiastic) consent of all his colleagues on the Inner Council.

“Yes,” Dunstan admitted grudgingly, “but as our good brother Virgil has been so kind as to point out, Quentin is hardly one of us anymore. If ever he was.”

“And do you wish to force us, at this moment, knowing our objections, to publicly declare whether he who calls is not one of us or he who will not come? At any rate,” Davidson went on when Dunstan made no immediate answer, “all that has been called for is a hearing to take evidence of the Slayer. We are to believe that Quentin’s son has prevailed upon him to insist that we hear her pleas as a matter of courtesy.”

“Courtesy(!)” the old man scoffed. “Discipline! That’s what we need. The intestinal fortitude to hold ourselves and our subordinates to at least minimal standards of moral rectitude! I mean to say! Is it now to be acceptable for a Primary Field Watcher—a man entrusted with the education, with the guidance, with the _soul_ of an innocent girl, of the Slayer, of the _Chosen One_ —to give her license to fornicate with demons and when she has been so corrupted to abuse her lasciviousness for his own carnal satisfaction!?! Be there never so many Laura Sterlings, though his misbegotten House fall, though the Slayer kill us all to the last man, woman and child; that murderous, lecherous, unrepentant villain deserves to be Stricken from the Registry!!!”

Davidson said nothing in response to this tirade. He waited for Dunstan to return to a low boil. “Of course,” the old man added, visibly calmer but still shaking a little from the self-inflicted injury to his dignity, “there are those who will attribute my... firmness in this matter to a... personal interest in Mr. Giles, or Mr. Travers for that matter. But nothing could be further from the truth. I am not a vengeful man, as you well know.”

“Certainly not,” Davidson agreed politely.

“The Council made it’s judgments long ago regarding our Charles’s death, and I’ve accepted that.”

“Of course,” said Davidson.

“This Council has a sacred trust to uphold where the Slayer is concerned,” Dunstan went on. “We must always remain focused on our duty to her above all else, to keep her on task so that she may fulfill her destiny. No matter what distractions life throws in our path, we must never forget, we must never let _her_ forget, what matters.”

****

The moment he’d finished his supper, Giles went to bed. He had only two hours to sleep before he was to meet Robson. Buffy took the underground to Piccadilly Circus. It was not the nearest large station but the one that had most prickled her Slayer senses earlier in the day. While she waited like Cinderella for the stroke of midnight, she killed vampires. A lot of vampires. She stood by the entrance as they came to her from the depths of the Earth one and two at a time, with none left to tell the tale. By seven o’clock she had killed half a dozen, by eight o’clock, fifteen. The night wore on, and the killing continued.

****

By the time they were treated and released from the hospital it was time for Xander to go to school. He protested, but Willow insisted. “It’s not like high school,” she reminded him. “They can kick you out, no appeals. See above re ‘guy at the pizza place’.”

“But, see, I have a new plan now,” he teased. “I don’t need a job or an education. I have a brain trapped in the body of a game-show hostess. Now I can spend all my time being clumsily charming and learning to Kick box.”

Willow rolled her eyes and pointed the car towards Fondren. “Connie’s coming to get Oz’s car and keys and everything,” she said. “She promised she’d try to be gone before I get back. Then I just have to make some calls and see if I can get someone over to fix the front door before tomorrow morning. If not, I guess Ms. Waddle can probably take care of it, but I hate to ask her to do me any more favors.” Ms. Waddle had agreed to play the role of Sheila Rosenberg on an as-needed basis for the next few weeks, including court in the morning.

“Careful,” Xander joked, breaking out his atrocious Brando, “‘Someday, [she] may ask you for a favor.’” Willow laughed a little too much, anything but hiding her nervousness at that thought. Xander patted her thigh reassuringly. “It’ll be alright,” he murmured. Statements in support of this thesis were conspicuous by their absence. “So what was that spell or whatever it was about?” he asked after a while.

“Something I’ve been working on for Amy,” Willow explained gloomily. “It didn’t work on her either. The idea is to talk directly to a person’s inner being, to remind them to be what they really are.”

Xander grinned. “Maybe Amy really is a rat,” he suggested. “I mean, Oz really is a werewolf.”

“Well... yeah,” Willow argued earnestly, “but only _accidentally_ , not, you know _essentially_. I mean,” she tried to explain, deliberately avoiding any mention of Aristotle, which she knew Xander would take as permission not to even try to understand, “that’s something that _happened_ to Oz; it’s not the Ozness of him.”

“Wil, relax,” Xander chided gently. “I was just making another insensitive joke. Oz was half way to Wolftown before you ever came back outside. If anything, I think the bucket of cold water slowed him down.”

“It must be because of the sleeping spell,” Willow half agreed, still blaming herself. “The extra wolfiness must have gotten pent up because he didn’t have a chance to let it out. And then I... we—Oh God! I’m a terrible slut!”

“No you’re not,” Xander assured her, “you’re a fabulous slut.” She looked over at him in resentful misery. “Oh, come on Wil,” he half scolded, “lighten up. I’m in love with you. You’re in love with me. We _belong_ together. If other people get their hearts or, you know, bones broken over it, then I’m sorry but life just sucks like that sometimes.”

****

By the time Giles got to the pub, he knew Robson, Morrison and all their old school chums were bound to be one or two drinks in. “I’m terribly sorry,” he apologized “I decided to lie down for a bit, jetlag you know. I guess I overslept.”

Morrison must have been quite a bit more than two drinks in, actually, because he burst out laughing at this remark, accurately reading him as embarrassed but getting nowhere near in what way. “’S’allright, ‘s’allright,” he assured Giles magnanimously. “‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments...’”

“’Twas really nothing of the sort...” he started to explain again.

“Ah, of course not,” Morrison agreed with infuriating generosity. “Old pocket watch still running a couple of days slow, no doubt? Quite alright, quite alright! I’m a solicitor now, if you recall! I’m allowed to charge you from when you were supposed to show up. Which means... you now owe me...” Morrison counted his fingers theatrically, “four pints and a shot.”

“Well,” said Giles, quite ready to move on, “what about two shots and we’ll call it even?”

“Brilliant!” Morrison ‘agreed’ with a flash of teeth “Proposed: That Mr. Giles shall buy us all a double round of Scotch Whiskey.”

“Seconded! Seconded!” declared a portly, hairless gentleman whom Giles could only presume he’d known in a former life. There was a chorus of ‘Ayes.’

“Resolved!” declared Robson, with a small, good-natured, entirely sober chuckle, gently wrapping the table with his half empty beer glass, “Mr. Giles shall buy all of you a double round of Scotch Whiskey.”

“Oh no!” protested a doleful looking middle aged person whom Giles recognized with mild horror as Jimmy Tinker, who had lived in the same street with he and Morrison when they were all boys in Cambridge, even before Walsington. “You’re not getting off that easily, Robson old man! You’ve been nursing that same pint ever since we got here! Are you going to drink with us like a man or are we going to have to assume that you’re some kind of fairy?”

“Oh, nice,” said Morrison, “very mature, that!”

“Didin’ they use ta call him Ferryman?” Tinker persisted, “at that Nancy Boys School you lot went to?”

“It was Boatman,” Giles corrected him. “Or Styx for short.” He was _trying_ to get into the spirit of the evening, really he was. The idea, of course, was to _remind_ certain people of the old times for whose sake they were being asked to wield their influence in Council. Unfortunately, said ‘old times’ had consisted mainly of drinking to the point of imbecility whilst lounging about laughing like hyenas. Even if he’d still been the sort of person who could enjoy that form of relaxation, Giles wasn’t much in the mood for letting his guard down at the moment.

“No, no,” Robson laughed sportingly, coming to his rescue, “It’s a fair cop. You’ve found me out. I am not man enough to drink a double Scotch Whiskey. My wife and five children are all an elaborate front. I can no longer hide the fact that I am madly in love with you and have been for thirty-odd—very odd—years. Please, Jimmy, Darling, throw off the shackles of social expectation and run away with me tonight so that our burning passion may be boundless and free at long last(!)”

“Kiss my ass, Robson,” Tinker mumbled sheepishly, almost by way of apology.

“Proposed—!” Morrison began. Someone hit him in the face with a wadded up napkin. Nearly everyone burst out laughing. The night wore on. The laughter continued.

It was only ten o’clock when, with the barest of apologies, Phillip Robson left his second pint nearly full on the table and bid them all goodnight. “Oh nice, breaking up the band again already!” Henry Claverton said, only half joking. He really did seem annoyed that the friend notoriously least likely to have time for any of the rest of them was leaving early yet again. After ‘meaning to’ get together for a drink for at least five years this time. Robson hardly spared a shrug for Claverton’s protest and was gone. Giles had a feeling he was anything but sorry not to have time to run with the old pack anymore, even if they were all considerably tamer than in years past. Grave as the business was that he had to attend tonight, he did have nearly two hours before he had to attend to it.

“Tol’ ya he’s a frairy!” Tinker declared muzzily, then laughed uproariously at his own joke. He had long and by far surpassed Morrison as the drunkest member of their party. In fact, Morrison had slowed down significantly so that, actually, Claverton had passed him too a little, and the fat, old, bald man, who had turned out to be Arnold “Letterbelly” Leach, had pretty well caught up.

“My Uncle Milton’s as gay as a rainbow colored kite on a fine Spring day,” Claverton continued to grouse, “And as busy with that Illuminati crap they both fart around with. But if he said he’d come out for a drink he’d come out for a drink.” Most Watchers were reasonably circumspect regarding their activities, even with their own families, but from the things it was impossible not to see and hear Claverton had evidently gathered that a number of his relatives and acquaintances were quite busy with a rather self-important club or lodge of some kind called the Watcher’s Council of Britain. Which he had not been asked to join.

The atmosphere was becoming tense. Giles, who’d been working very diligently at staying just drunk enough to be polite, thought it was probably time for another, for Claverton as well as himself. “Why don’t I get the next round,” Morrison offered, independently reaching the same conclusion.

Unfortunately, Tinker seemed to have missed the last several seconds. “Well anyhow, the ban’s’not all here anyhow. Skiff, tol’ us ta piss off! Tol’ Leb’b’ly an’ F’rryman that e’en—he all’ays tells me to piss off—an’ a bu’sh o’ shiddabout pedophiles an’ mudderers an’ that. An’ ‘stan’ards’! Ne’er seen ‘im ge’n sush a twiss! Swy tol’ ‘im we’d gi’ yeh tha p’yano par’s, an’ ‘e di’n’t thig th’as funny either! ’Ee’s turnin’ in’oo an ol’ prig if you ass me.”

“You weren’t even _in_ the band,” Leach muttered. Skiff was his best mate from the age of eleven. He never had liked Thinker nor understood why Giles and in particular Morrison were so attached to him. He wasn’t even a Walsington Boy let alone anything to do with the Council.

“Tinker... do shut up,” Morrison said, more embarrassed than exasperated, ignoring Leach and looking at Giles apologetically.

Of course, Giles had noticed the absence of Nicholas “Skiffle” Steepleton, now a respected and somewhat influential Watcher of the Wyndham-Pryce Clan but once the backup vocalist and the whatever-nobody-else-is-playing of the then aspiring blues/rock cover band Duckrabbit. Though he had pretty well guessed the reason, it still wasn’t pleasant to have to hear. “I think I’ll have that drink now,” he said.

“Seconded!” Leach and Claverton agreed at once. Morrison went to get it. Thinker looked down at his drink, muttering sullenly.

“Yoko’s got him on a short leash is what,” Claverton said after a minute, still speaking of Robson’s departure. As ever, he less than half understood what was going on, and, as ever, he resented it.

“You sound like such a prat still calling her that after all these years!” Leach informed him testily. “Truthfully,” he half apologized a second later, “I’m starting to get a bit of a headache. I think perhaps it’s best if I call it a night after all.” He pulled a couple of twenty pound notes out of his wallet, getting to his feet, and threw them on the table. “Good luck, Rupert,” he said seriously. “I mean that, I really do. And I’m going to try talking to Skiff again. He’s just… angry, that’s all.”

“An’ any’ow, for’th’recor’,” Tinker slurred still not knowing when his opinion was unwanted “the ban’ di’n’ _officially_ break up ‘til our lead sin’er ODed on her’ine, walked ou’f hosp’al agains’ a’vice, an’ dis’peared for a cubble o’ years.”

“Thank you,” Giles said to Leach, ignoring Tinker as best he could. “Believe me, I appreciate it. We both do.”

“What was that all about?” Claverton asked, annoyedly when they were the only two more or less lucid people at the table.

“Oh, there’s some... ‘Council’ thing going on,” Giles said in a calculatedly dismissive tone with a well-practiced casual wave of the hand. “I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details even if it wasn’t a ‘secret.’”

“I didn’t even know you still fooled with that,” Claverton said, seeming genuinely surprised and perhaps mildly disappointed. “Thought you’d have better things to do.”

“Well, it’s important to my father,” Giles demurred. “And he is getting on in years. Well, and as I’m hardly ever in town anyway...” Claverton nodded. He felt he understood. He had had a difficult relationship with his own father in the past. There came a point when you had to do whatever you had to do to work it out.

Morrison came back with the drinks, another round of doubles, of which everyone gratefully partook whether they needed it or not. “D’you ’mem’er the firs’ time we e’er ha’ a dri’k?” Tinker said to Morrison, all warm mellow smiles again once he’d swallowed his own drink and started in on Leach’s. “’twas one bo’l’o’ beer f’the free ’vus an’ Ruper’ wou’n’t dri’k’ny. You wou’n’t har’ly dri’k’ny. An’ I’s sush a li’weigh’ I fought I’s dru’k!”

“You _were_ all of you just going on eleven,” Claverton pointed out tiredly. He hadn’t been there, but he’d heard the story enough. More than enough. The would be Ripper and his mates’ first adventure in defiance, sneaking out in the middle of the night to go up on the roof of one of the University Buildings and watch John Glenn’s tiny space craft orbit the earth (in the name of freedom or some such thing, waving the flag of Western Civilization) in the face of the direct disapproval of The Great Andrew Giles. For some reason, this was the story that had convinced Skiff and Styx that the two younger boys were ‘worth cultivating’ back in school, despite their apparent squeaky cleanness. All at once, the evening was growing very tiresome indeed.

****

Faith came in through the motel window. She’d been walking the roofline, so it was as convenient as anything. The place was abandoned, expect for the fact that she’d stayed there a few times. Enough to feel like it ought to belong to her. But there was someone there. “Get out,” she said to the startled blonde girl who was staring at her in the almost dark with intense catlike eyes that seemed out of place in her childishly pouty face. “This is my place.”

“Daddy!” the girl whined shaking the bulky figure of a man rolled in a blanket sleeping beside her. “Daddy, get up; there’s someone here.”

The man set up bleary eyed, “What is it Babygirl?” he asked caressing her in a tender but not at all fatherly way. He was _old_ enough to be her father, a lot older than Doug anyway, but his features and coloring were all wrong. He just _liked_ to be called “Daddy”. Faith hated guys who just liked to be called “Daddy”.

“There’s someone here, like an intruder or something,” the girl explained plaintively, cringing against him. He shrugged her off, glancing in Faith’s direction for the first time. “We’re getting’ robbed by Li'l' Orphan Annie!” The scumbag laughed, taking in Faith’s new hairdo.

“Take your whiny bitch and get out,” she instructed him with casual contempt. “This is my place.”

“Like hell!” he growled. “Get your skinny ass out of here! Actually,” he corrected himself appraising her in the waning afternoon light from the window behind her, “you have a nice ass.” He laughed again, “give me a piece, little girl, and you can stay.”

Faith’s cold appraising stare frightened the blonde pet but not her master. She clung to him and quailed behind him at the same time. “That’s not very funny,” she scolded him paradoxically. Her tone was somehow both parental and childish, like the angry yapping of a Pomeranian but poutier.

“Get out of my way, Blondie,” Faith warned with quiet gravity.

The repulsive pile of a man grinned, giving the girl a firm shove towards the edge of the bed. “Good call, little girl,” he said, proving his extraordinary lack of talent at listening for emotional nuance, “it gets cold in the desert at night.” Blondie, who knew hatred and rage when she saw them, rose into a half crouch, looking in horror from one to the other of the soon to be combatants, then slunk backwards into a corner, too frightened to do anything else.

Faith yanked one side of the rusty old bedstead sharply towards her and just a little upwards, dumping her suddenly speechless enemy in a heap on the floor. The mattress was already old and musty, she didn’t want it soaked in blood too. The girl let out a little cry of distress, high and thin like a scream but short and sharp like a yelp. Throwing the bed aside, oblivious to the horrible clatter it made as it slammed against the wall, Faith stalked slowly forward, like a tiger who was not so much hungry as ready to kill for the joy of being a tiger. Correctly appraising his situation at last, the mountain of a man scramble backwards, getting his feet under him only as he stumbled out the door and fled.

Faith could have easily stopped him, could have jerked him across the room and stomped him flat, but something inside of her... resisted. It might have been because of the girl. She was weeping steadily now, hiding her face in her hands and muttering prayers at the edge of hearing. The only words Faith could make out were ‘Lord’ and ‘Sunshine.’ Some kind of New Age religion maybe. “Chill,” Faith instructed her curtly but not unkindly. The girl quieted and looked up at her with unbearable hope and gratitude, silently thanking her for the incredible favor of not beating the crap out of her. It was a look that made Faith feel both annoyed with her and angry on her behalf, not to mention a little ashamed. “Clean up this mess,” she added a bit more sharply. “You can sleep in one of the other rooms. There’s beds in most of ‘em. This one’s mine.”

“Who’s going to take care of me?” the girl quavered.

Faith shrugged. “I will, as long as you don’t make too much trouble.” She grinned. “Hell, I always wanted a dog.”

****

Oz stirred and groaned. Connie smiled nervously down at him. “I told you so,” she said tenderly.

“What day is it this time?” Oz asked smiling embarrassedly.

“It’s still Wednesday,” she assured him. “You’ve only been asleep a few hours.”

“I think this time I really do have head trauma,” Oz said. “The last thing I remember is getting in a fight with Xander? Why did I—Oh. Did he beat me up again?”

“You got hit by a golf cart,” Connie informed him flatly, “you were… chasing a car.”

“Well,” said Oz, absorbing the implication from her voice as well as her words, and from the way she averted her eyes, “that changes things a little bit.”

“No it doesn’t,” said Connie firmly. “This is not your fault. _She_ said it was probably a side effect of the magic.” The reference to Willow, even in pronoun form, seemed to burn her tongue. “If you go through one normal... cycle, it shouldn’t happen again.”

“It shouldn’t have happened once,” Oz pointed out grimly. He was quiet a minute. “Is she—I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?” ‘Not enough,’ Connie wanted to say, and her expression must have been about that bitter, because Oz gave her a gently chastising look.

“They’re fine,” Connie assured him. “They sent them home.”

Home. The place they lived and he didn’t. Where he should not have gone. Just like his mom had said. “We should get out of this town,” he said. “What are we still doing here?”

Connie didn’t argue the distinction between Fondren and Sunnydale. She knew that wasn’t what he meant. “Ms. Everton said you can take your finals whenever you’re ready,” she admitted. “They have them written.”

“I’m ready,” Oz said.

“That’s true,” Connie smiled. “If I’d known being stuck in bed for weeks at a time was the way to get you to study and do your homework, I’d have beaten you half to death years ago.” Oz smiled, being supportive of her attempt at making a joke. “I have a good job here.” Connie said seriously. “And Maureen can’t—I can’t... it’s just easier with two of us.”

“But I’m going away to college soon anyway.” Oz tried to point out. Her silence was pointedly noncommittal. “I got in to MIT” he said. “I could be a suit guy.”

“It costs money,” Connie reminded him. “We need the State Scholarship.”

“UCLA,” he bargained. “I could come home every month.”

“U.C. Sunnydale is a lot closer if something happens,” Connie argued. “I’d feel safer knowing you’re nearby.”

“Well you’re the only one,” Oz pointed out.

“Things will get better,” Connie said. “We just have to learn how to live with this.”

“Yeah,” said Oz quietly and turned his eyes to the ceiling.

“There’s going to be someone out there,” Connie insisted fiercely, addressing what they both knew to be the real topic of the conversation, “someone better, someone right for you. Then you’ll be glad you figured this one out as soon as you did.”

“Yeah,” Oz repeated bleakly, “someone better.” Eventually, if he was patient, someday the right girl would come along and make him feel like his life might not be completely hopeless after all. For about a month.

****

As sad a comment as it was on the decline of a once legendary troupe of carousers, by a quarter of midnight even Tinker could see the sport was past the best. They were just four middle aged men in various stages of mirthless drunkenness holding down a table, each brooding quietly over his own drink. Tinker asked Claverton to give him a ride home. Giles was a bit past the point of caring to point out that Claverton might not be fit to drive himself. He had nothing to go home to for at least another hour or two. Buffy had already said she planned to patrol until time for the meeting. He’d been told specifically that he was not wanted anywhere near the Council Building, and on his own, in his current state, he did not entirely trust himself not to wander in that direction.

“Stay,” he said to Morrison simply. His friend did.

“I suppose, Hen’s uncle’s not out carousing tonight either,” Morrison said after a while.

“I very much doubt it,” Giles admitted. “I’m sure they’ll both be in a much more celebratory mood by Friday,” he added, dryly.

“God, is there no way to get out of that!” Morrison wondered aloud. “I mean, _I’m_ happy for you, don’t get me wrong,” he tried to clarify in response to Giles’ slightly offended look, “but I cannot fathom the logic of inviting your judges to _celebrate_ the crime for which they are about to punish you. I understand that certain people want a very public means of showing their support, but still...”

“Well,” Giles said with a wan smile, “at least I have, at long last, managed to produce yet one more Weregelder, despite my best efforts. At least a few people are bound to find that worth celebrating.”

Morrison was not smiling. “Rupert,” he said decisively, leaning in closer, evidently overcoming a reluctance to speak plainly, deciding what had to be said was too important, “I’m only telling you this because I am your friend and because I see firsthand in my line of work what happens to people when they go into trial surrounded by supporters who’ve convinced themselves that everything is going to work out because they need it to.

“Objectively, your case is terrible. There is absolutely no ambiguity as to your guilt and nothing to mitigate it. Every circumstance that you seem to imagine to be mitigating is aggravating in the eyes of those who sit in judgment of you. You’ve made the worst type of confession possible, admitting every single fact alleged against you without the slender compensating advantage of showing remorse and humility. ‘I’m not wrong and I’m not sorry,’ is not a wonderful preface to a plea for mercy. Neither is ‘you’ll be sorry if you punish me,’ by the way, which is how nearly everyone is interpreting your position. And more than a few people I’ve talked to suspect you of threatening Andrew or Quentin or both with anything from public embarrassment to mortal violence.”

“Dear God!” Giles gasped. “Quentin hasn’t even spoken for me, has he?”

“Not publicly,” Morrison admitted. “Have you threatened them?” the attorney asked pointedly.

“Of course not,” Giles lied calmly and convincingly. “Father, I believe, has simply discovered that my being publicly disgraced and reviled hurts his pride too much. As for Quentin, if he really is considering supporting us, Peter must be a much better advocate than I ever realized.”

“That’s interesting,” Morrison informed him, “because my daughter tells me that Martin Robson has told her that his father has as much as implied that he expects Quentin to instruct his House in your favor at any moment, and that, in fact, it is Quentin who has called this evening’s ‘secret meeting’ that you seem to be so keenly aware of. And my son tells me that his girlfriend has told him that Elaine Travers has told her sister that he seems ready to change his position, and with shockingly little advocacy on Peter’s part.”

“I really don’t know what to tell you,” Giles said woodenly. “I hope it’s true. About Quentin changing his mind I mean.”

“I wish I felt sure it would be enough,” Morrison worried aloud. “But instructing votes and getting them are two different things. It’s an awkward thing to have to assert traditional authority in favor of breaking tradition. Men and women have been Stricken from the Registry for so much less than this that even the suggestion of mercy offends the notion of precedent. If I were asked merely what would be just and fitting rather than what would be best for the Council and the world or what debts of loyalty I myself owe to you, I’d vote to Strike and Robson himself has all but told me he feels the same way. Imagine how your enemies feel? And those who don’t know you by anything but your, to be generous, uneven reputation?

“The only things you’ve got going for you are your father’s support (which has become less valuable every day since he left the Inner Council), your friendship with Robson (which half of the younger generation sees as corrupt angling on his part for a heritable Seat, including Martin who would be loath to inherit it) and your tacit threat, whether or not intended, to unleash the Slayer on us if we dare to stand on principal. It is impossible to overstate the level of resentment against you in the Outer Council just for that.

“Houses are going to split, Rupert. People are going to break ranks to vote against you, and to a much lesser extent I suppose, for you as well. With the high numbers of young Watchers coming in, the discomfort the older ones feel with so much change and the stresses the whole Council has been under with this Potential crisis, I have no idea what anyone will or won’t do anymore. People are angry, frustrated, afraid, confused. And you have made yourself a very clear and satisfying target. Your case has become a referendum on rectitude verses pragmatism. Among a group of people who arrange their careers, their families and even what countries they live in around the requirements of a secret, thankless, unwinnable, never ending battle against the Forces of Darkness. You do the math, Rupert. What do you think that’s likely to add up to?”

He saw it. With sudden, horrible clarity he saw it. The alter was already built. The wood was laid for the burning. Now would be an excellent time for another goat to be added to the dramatis personae.

****

“It’s Zack alright,” Lieutenant Hastard said, turning the body over.

“Damn,” Captain Bonner cursed.

“Single gunshot wound to the head,” Hastard went on. “Recent. And then they just dumped him here, in broad daylight, completely exposed.”

“It’s like they wanted to make sure we found him as soon as possible,” Bonner agreed.

“She doesn’t use guns,” Hastard noted grimly. “At least, She never has.”

“She doesn’t need them,” Bonner acknowledged.

“He wasn’t working on anything else,” the Lieutenant pointed out. “Could be an old case, I guess,” he added doubtfully. “Or a personal grudge,” more doubtfully still.

“To hell with it,” Bonner said, “I don’t care if he is Assistant God of Oncology. Pick up Ericson.”

 

 


	15. The Truth About Sheep and Goats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grim intrigues and dark revelations continue as the Giles Clan pursues the increasingly dim hope of preventing Giles's Striking from the Registry. But might some of those revelations hold the key to Giles's past? To Buffy's future? Meanwhile, the Ericsons find the stakes raised in their own grim struggle against the various powers seeking to conquer Faith, and Willow has a revelation (of sorts) all her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part III: Where the Heart Is

Buffy sat in the one chair in the empty hallway for a very, very long time. Until now, she hadn’t realized that it was possible to be this bored and this terrified at the same time. She needed something, anything to do with her hands or her anything else. She was tempted to get her yo-yo out, but somehow she didn’t think the Very Important Men she was waiting to see would appreciate that a whole lot. She sat, swinging her feet and almost literally twiddling her thumbs (banging them together actually, but with her hands in that position) humming/mumbling under her breath, things like ‘Row Row Row Your Boat’ and the Double Mint Gum jingle. More time passed. When ‘This Land Is Your Land’ started sounding profound and ominous inside her head, she gave up humming. Buffy was not on friendly ground. To the seven men behind that door she was not an Equal.

At last, the huge double doors at the end of the hall swung open with a little rumble of ancient mechanisms suggesting that they had been automatic longer than such things had been widely thought possible. “COME,” said a calm, heavy, echoy voice out of nowhere. It was almost too theatrical to be unsettling. Almost.

Buffy walked into the Council Chamber. She stood in the well of what looked like a dark paneled theater with graduated rows of seats rising behind her. The first four rows were worn leather chairs behind ancient wooden desks, complete with inkwells, sixty seats in three five by four sections between four wide aisles. The last three rows were long narrow benches bolted down below long narrow tables open only to the two outside aisles, enough room to easily seat another seventy-five people and in which more than a hundred could probably squeeze in. The space was empty and mostly dark.

In front of her, where the stage or screen should have been, was a high, dark wooden monstrosity that didn’t know if it was a dais or a battlement. It could have been a pulpit. From this promontory, seven old men in somber robes, mostly in purples, blues and reds, each a little different, looked down at her. Five them were hooded, like druids, some to the point that their eyes could not be seen. Robson was the most casually dressed, in a black judge’s robe, with a powdered wig, which should have been ridiculous but wasn’t. The other outlier wore white, flowing robes like an angle in a Christmas pageant and a tiny white yamikkah. Obviously Adam Davidson, Buffy decided. Though the overall effect was more Catholic than Jewish, it was defiantly not-pagan.

“Do you know what we require of you?”one hooded figure barked. Buffy’s stomach turned over. Somehow she didn’t think ‘the broomstick of the Wicked Witch of the West’ was going to be the right answer.

“This is my meeting, Michael,” a tall, stout figure, presumably Quentin Travers, reminded Dunstan dryly. In a genial, professorial tone, totally at odds with his human sacrifice compatible outfit, he went on to ask, “Miss Summers, do you know why you’ve been summoned here tonight?”

“Mrs. Giles,” Robson corrected his colleague impatiently.

“Buffy Summers-Giles, actually,” she informed them nervously, trying to smile, “and yes, I think so.”

Dunstan snorted contemptuously. The gentleman next to him, whose purple hood was not so very far forward, grinned and shook his wavy, snow-white head. “That’s quite a name to spit out,” he said.

“But on the plus side,” Buffy tried to joke, smiling weekly, “I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in the phone book if you ever want to find me.” No one laughed or smiled except that the white-haired guy had never stopped smiling from before. She guessed darkly ironic pop-culture references were pretty much going to be wasted on this crowd.

“Do you feel you are being attacked for having a child?” Davidson asked. Or maybe not.

“I don’t know,” Buffy said. “Aren’t we?”

“We ask the questions in this Chamber, Madam!” Dunstan declared harshly.

“I have a question,” said Robson, a little pointedly in the old man’s direction.

“By all means,” said Quentin in a tone that combined pompous magnanimity toward Robson with a firm reminder to Dunstan of who was running the meeting.

“Since arriving in London thirty-two hours ago, how many vampires have you killed?” Robson asked.

“Fifty-seven,” Buffy said, surprised. Two or three hooded figures gasped. The white-haired guy, whom she was tentatively calling Milton Crowne, laughed out loud. Even Robson looked shocked. He had probably not been expecting more than double the seventeen Giles could have told him about already. Buffy felt grateful and relieved. If the broomstick could do it after all, they might just be in business. Buffy kicked ass at kicking ass. It was everything else she wasn’t so sure about.

“How often did you fornicate with demons before you met Rupert Giles?”Dunstan demanded savagely.

Buffy blinked, “Wait, _what_?”

“I _assume_ I don’t have to _define_ the term,” he sneered, “even if you are an American.”

“I know what the definition of ‘is’ is,” Buffy replied coolly. “I don’t play word games. I just don’t see what my relationship with Angel has to do with anything.”

“I don’t see what _any_ of this has to do with anything,” a blue hooded figure complained. The probable Mr. Crowne looked both annoyed and amuse at this, though not the least bit surprised.

“Is it not true, Brother Julian,” Robson asked, “that a man may be judged not only by the intentions of his actions, but also by their results, as a tree is judged by its fruits?”

“It is indeed!” Dunstan agreed combatively, just as if he’d been addressed.

“Well then,” Robson rejoined, “it would seem to me that his having trained such an effective Slayer and her having stayed so admirably on task under these very difficult circumstances as to have eliminated nearly two-thirds of the estimated vampire population of this city in a day and a half are extremely relevant facts to be considered in this matter.”

“So is the fact that this child doesn’t even know that it’s _wrong_ to lie down with a damned vampire!” Dunstan retorted. “I can’t begin to imagine what that ... _person_ has been filling her head with!”

“It’s not like that!” Buffy objected fiercely, near tears. She had no idea what to say to make them understand how good for her, essential even, Giles was, how much she needed him.

“What did he say to you when he learned that you had done what you had done with the vampire Angelus?” asked the faceless figures of Julian Wyndham-Pryce piously.

“He said I acted rashly,” Buffy answered, seeing where they were going with this. She was not going to give them one word of evidence that he had encouraged her in that doomed romance. “He said that the coming months would be hard on all of us, and he was right. They have been. He was so messed up after Jenny died. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Honestly, if anyone was leading anyone astray it was me, not Giles.” It was not Dunstan or Julian who snorted derisively at this but a gray hooded figure who, by process of elimination, almost had to be Virgil Gaudencio. “Not that he would ever say anything like that,” Buffy tried to correct course. “He would never—he blamed himself, not me, for everything from the very beginning. To the point I was kind of offended really.” _That_ was Dunstan’s cue to snort again.

They kept firing questions at her for well over an hour. Buffy couldn’t tell if she was holding her own or not. Half the time she didn’t really know for sure what they were getting at and the rest of the time it didn’t seem like there was one right answer for all seven of them. They were each twisting everything she said in a different way, fashioning her words into weapons with which to attack one another, including both Robson and Crowne and, to a lesser extent, Virgil Gaudencio. At least the three of them seemed to be more or less aligned against Dunstan, which she hoped meant more or less in her favor. Julian tried, not very effectively, to support Dunstan, who seemed to be annoyed by his ‘help.’ At first, Quentin’s chief concern seemed to be _not_ giving anyone any reason to think he was on her side, but as things went along, he made a production of being convinced. Davidson seemed a side unto himself, saying the least yet somehow making her feel more examined than any of the rest of them.

“I’ve heard enough of this,” Dunstan declared coldly at last. Everyone looked grim. Even Milton Crown wasn’t smiling.

“Indeed,” Quentin agreed with injured dignity, still wrestling with Dunstan over their relative Equality.

“I propose that we excuse the witness and resume deliberation in secret session,” said Davidson. They were the first words Buffy had heard him speak in half an hour. The motion was quickly seconded and adopted and the Slayer pointedly invited to find her own way to the door. For the most part Buffy was glad to have it over, she just wished she had a clue how it had gone. All in all she prefered the half of her night that had felt like a shift in the slaughterhouse.

It was two a.m. Buffy caught the last train heading homeward. She was exhausted physically and mentally, but she was much too aware of the London’s dangers to try napping on the train. Instead she took up a position in a back corner of a half empty car where she could keep her few fellow passengers at a distance and under surveillance. Halfway home, an old man entered the car. He was so haggard, filthy and disheveled that it took Buffy a dozen seconds to recognize him, his underlying professorial tweediness registering an instant sooner than his Giles-like face. It was Andrew! She watched him a little while unsure what to think. His eyes, cheeks and nose were red and puffy, so much so that, though his gait made it clear that he’d been drinking, and not a little, she wondered if he hadn’t been crying also. There was dirt all over the front of his suit and on his face and hands. It was caked under his fingernails.

When he stumbled and nearly fell on the floor, Buffy found herself at his side, holding him up. “Thank you, My Dear,” he mumbled drunkenly, seaming not the least bit surprised that she was there. At first Buffy thought this might be because he had no idea who she was or where they were at, but a second later he added, “You’re much too good for us, My Dear. Why anyone would want to be a part of this family if they had any choice in the matter...” he let the sentence trail off to nothingness and started another, seemingly unrelated one. “I went to have dinner with an old friend!” he declared brashly, as if the statement were at once a declaration of innocence and an expression of bitterest irony. Then, mumbling and laughing, “My dear old friend, my dear old friend. Too good for me, always was. Too good for me.”

 ****

“Excuse me!” said Patsy looking up when she heard the door open. “You can’t go in there! Dr. Ericson’s with a patient!”

“Police business,” Hastard explained curtly, flashing her his badge.

“You _still_ can’t go in there!” Patsy tried to object, but they stepped around her and opened the door anyway. There were half a dozen of them, two in plain clothes and four in uniforms. They were wearing bullet proof vests.

The woman on the exam table sat up with a little cry of panic, covering herself. “Oh for the love of Christ!” Ericson objected. “Don’t you people have any shame?! This is an exam room! I’m with a patient! Wait outside!”

“Douglas Thomas Ericson?” one of the suits read from a piece of paper.

“No,” said Doug sarcastically. “I’m his evil twin. Get the fuck out of my exam room!”

“We have a warrant for your arrest for Capital Murder, Evidence Tampering and Theft of Government Property,” the suit said.

“Oh my _God_!” Doug’s patient wailed, shrinking into herself.

“Bullshit!” Doug spat angrily, “There’s no such thing as accessory after the fact in this state. It’s Hindering, max. Ask that dick Mallet.”

Suddenly Doug was being slammed against a wall. Before he could think, he was fighting back. There were a couple of cops on the ground bleeding by the time suit number two put the gun to his head. Doug let go of the collar bone of the cop he was sitting on and unclenched his fist, trying to take deep calming breaths. If he didn’t get a hold on himself, he was about to be in very, very poor health. Against every instinct in his body he let these men pull him to his feet, spin him around, slam his face against a wall hard enough to rebreak his nose and cuff his hands behind his back. When they found his gun in his waistband, one of the detectives ‘accidentally’ hit him between the shoulder blades with it before the three uninjured uniforms started manhandling him from the room. Patsy ran to find an administrator.

“Don’t go to Loughland!” Douglas shouted over his shoulder as they led him away. “He wouldn’t know a melanoma from his own asshole! Go to Bircher, I don’t care if she is Out of Network! Those Insurance SOBs will bury you if you give them half a chance!”

****

“Well,” said Dunstan smugly as soon as Buffy was gone. “I hope you are all now satisfied that they’ve nothing much to say for themselves. I trust you’ve no motion to make Mr. Travers?”

Quentin looked down at his hands. He faced an unenviable choice. She just hadn’t given him _enough_. The moment he moved to Resend, they were bound to know he was being coerced. But if he didn’t, and the vote went against Rupert as it seemed so likely to do... “I feel I must move to Resend the Recommendation to Strike,” he said at last. “My son feels too strongly about this, and I feel I must support him.”

Julian and Dunstan exchanged a look of knowledge and contempt. “Second,” said Robson hurriedly.

“I think a word or two of debate might be in order before we vote on this, cousin,” Julian interjected crisply. Quentin looked back at him steadily and nodded.

“We know,” said Dunstan.

“What, exactly, is it that you ‘know’?” Quentin asked suspiciously.

“That Rupert and his father have been putting pressure on you somehow,” Virgil spoke up, glaring at Dunstan in a way that would have prevented most men from speaking further.

Michael Dunstan was not most men. “We also know—” he began.

“I feel like voting _now_ ,” said Milton Crowne sharply. “And I vote Aye!”

“Aye!” Robson agreed, though he knew he was out of order.

“Debate has not yet closed!” Dunstan barked. Quentin was keeping his features largely impassive, but there was fear in his eyes.

“He’ll still be Expelled,” Julian objected. “If Sterling’s getting his Seat, I’d just as soon see him Stricken!”

“Well, now there’s a principled stand!” Virgil Scoffed, still willing Dunstan to think better of what he was still clearly about to say. For a shilling he’d have strangled the old bastard to death and paid the shilling himself.

“We know!” Dunstan declared in as loud a voice as he could muster, “that the sons of Peter Travers—”

“Damn you to Hell, Michael,” Virgil said with quiet sincerity.

“—have deceived this body through the practice of the dark arts,” Dunstan concluded calmly, “And I shall no doubt see you there, dear Virgil, along with this charlatan and his two murderous kinsmen.”

Quentin remained quiet a few more moments, his mind racing. The others were all expressing exasperation or worse at Dunstan but not one of them seemed the least bit _puzzled_ by his words. They really did know, if not everything, certainly enough. His wife, at least, was not a Watcher. It was possible, even if the worst were to happen, that he might not lose her. He only needed a little time, a few weeks perhaps, to get her used to the idea, to work through a few basic matters, like her ability to see the grandchildren and whether they’d be allowed to keep the house. He wondered which way the loyalty of his... operatives would break, Mr. Weatherby most especially, if they would expose his now suddenly much more criminal seeming intrigues, if it made any sense to try to carry on with any of his plans, what exactly the point of his existence was supposed to be if he didn’t, which side of what he would be on if he did. Regardless, he could see nothing to be gained by crossing the Weregleders in this extremity. His father and therefore his whole House yet had some dignity to protect if he didn’t, and if anything, his sentimental enemies seemed more likely to be merciful if he was. “I move to close debate and vote on the motion,” he said levelly.

“Resign before the vote, and I won’t support a Strike against you,” Dunstan declared frankly.

“I shall do no such thing!” Quentin retorted haughtily, as if offended by the notion of such bartering. Even if he had believed his old enemy, he felt such an action would guarantee Robson’s and Crowne’s votes against him at least and ruin any small chance of consideration from Virgil. His own House might vote to Strike him, come to that, depending on who held the Seat by then. His son was much too young to be considered in a House with so many active senior Watchers. “Whatever it is that you accuse me of, you may state it plainly,” he declared, “and we shall deal with it when we have done with the business at hand.”

“I second the motion to close debate,” said Robson.

“Aye!” acclaimed all but Dunstan.

“All those in favor of Resending the Recommendation to Strike Rupert Giles from the Registry of Watchers, join me in saying ‘Aye’!” Quentin demanded.

“Aye!!!” Robson, Crowne and Virgil declared without hesitation.

“Then it is done,” said Davidson.

“Then I move to Resend the Recommendation to Expel him from the Outer Council,” Julian said.

“Damn it, No!” Dunstan railed. “He’s getting away with everything! Again!!! He’ll be on this Bloody Council yet! I won’t have it!!!”

“Why not?” replied Virgil bitterly, “He’ll fit right in.”

Julian looked pointedly at Robson. “Second,” Robson said with a sigh. He felt it was going too far really, especially given the discord it was creating, and it was more than Rupert had asked for, but he could hardly deny Julian under the circumstances. The Seat was all that mattered to him.

“Aye,” said Quentin, seeming greatly pained. He could hardly afford Julian as an enemy.

Virgil shook his head. “He deserves far worse. We’ll have to deal with the Sterlings on some other basis.”

“Indeed we shall,” Crowne agreed. “I’m sorry Phillip, Julian, really I am.”

“Then the motion fails,” said Davidson.

There was silence for a moment. Then Dunstan rose unsteadily to his feet. For a moment his colleagues thought he was walking out. Then he did something far more shocking. “I stand in veto of the vote to Resend the Recommendation to Strike Rupert Giles from the Registry!” he declared.

“Good God!” Julian gasped, “You’re mad!” If Dunstan did not retract his statement in the next several seconds, the remaining six Equals must make a choice. Each must stand with him or declare that his House had no Seat on this Council if he was to sit in it. As a practical matter, they would be demanding that the Flavians select a new leader or leave the Council en mass. In sixteen and a half centuries it had happened eleven times that a House had had to make that choice. The choice had always been the same. No one could say what might happen if it wasn’t. Whomever rose to stand with him would be putting himself in the same position. Therefore, it had long ago been decided that if ever three Equals rose all would acquiesce, the vote to Resend would be nullified.

“I am not mad!” Dunstan insisted fiercely. “Have courage man! We are fifty-four of one hundred twenty. If you stand with me, they will not dare to stand against us.”

“I am one of your ‘fifty-four’,” Robson pointed out coolly, “and I intend to remain seated. Julian, if you stand with him I shall have your Seat and Laura shall have Rupert’s and I’ll not feel the least bit bad about it.”

“And when our Houses vote to follow us in breaking this Council in half?” Dunstan challenged. “When it comes to a determination of to whom these chambers and their secrets belong? When your own son stands with us, will you then raise your hand to him for the love of Rupert Giles?”

“Ask me what I shall do when pigs fly!” Robson sneered, with perhaps a bit more confidence than he actually felt. “All that has happened here is that you have at long last effected your own belated retirement.”

“And Ms. Sterling’s ascension to the Weregelder Seat,” Dunstan answered coolly.

Julian rose. Pigheadedness had overcome his terror. “I rise in veto,” he declared, his voice shaking, “and as the head of the House of Hippolytus I demand that you, Brother Phillip, rise also!”

“I will not,” said Robson coolly. “In rising you betray our House. You betray humanity by putting this Council at risk for your own selfish purposes. I do not recognize your authority to make demands upon me.”

A long moment passed. Two stood while five sat. It was impossible to calculate what hung in the balance. The mere removal of two fools from the Inner Council was the likeliest result. But not by much. Not by enough. Davidson rose. “We precipitate that which we would prevent,” he said. “I stand in veto.” Virgil cursed. Robson lowered his head. Crowne laughed bitterly. Quentin remained alert and impassive. Everyone retook their seats.

“Now then,” said Dunstan, having removed all doubt as to who was in control of the meeting, “I propose that this Council Recommend that Quentin Travers and Andrew Giles, the sons of Peter Travers, be Stricken from the Registry of Watchers.”

“As an Equal of the Inner Council,” Quentin declared with great dignity, “I demand to know of what misdeeds I am accused and on what evidence. And on what evidence you so defame my father.”

“You father confessed all to me,” said Dunstan coolly, “in the course of pleading to mitigate the judgment of this Council against Andrew and Helena Giles in the matter of Dahlia Harrow. And I do mean _confessed_. And I do mean _all_. Do you wish me to disclose further details?”

“No,” said Quentin quietly.

“Do you deny that you bore false witness against Rupert Giles in secret session and used magic or other deceptive means to create a false recording to bolster your testimony?” Dunstan asked.

“No,” Quentin repeated forthrightly.

“Do you deny that you induced Andrew Giles to lie to Virgil in an attempt to cover up these facts and to further manipulate the proceedings of this Council?”

“No.”

“Then why do you not, for shame, second my motion?”

‘Because you are a contemptible old hypocrite and I feel no remorse for maneuvering against you as you have always done against me,’ Quentin would have liked to have answered. Instead he said, also quite truthfully, “Because I don’t want to lose my son.”

“Why does not someone second my motion!?!” Dunstan demanded.

“You will retire sufficiently in advance of the July Quarterly Meeting that you may be replace at that time,” Virgil told Quentin, ignoring Dunstan.

“Of course,” said Quentin levelly.

“You will consult with us regarding the choice of your successor before discussing it with the members of your own House,” said Julian.

“I will,” Quentin agreed.

“Once you have retired, you will not participate in any capacity in the work of the Council or of any Slayer or Watcher nor advise anyone else in that regard, including your son,” Davidson said. Again Quentin agreed.

“You will reveal all of your activities and agents, leaving no matter in any way concerning the Slayer a secret from this Council and protecting no one who has done wrong on your behalf,” said Robson. Quentin agreed, almost sure that he was lying, in fact, suddenly quite certain, suddenly knowing what he intended to do, right or wrong, whether or not it needed to be done.

“Then the motion fails for want of a second,” Crowne declared grinning, and I move that we adjourn this meeting before someone proposes us into an apocalypse!”

“Second!” said Robson and Julian together. The motion passed unanimously.

“I don’t suppose there is any need to remind any of you,” Davidson reminded them all, looking pointedly at Travers, Crowne and Robson each in turn, “that these proceedings are secret? Even from Rupert Giles.”

****

Andrew had rambled more or less incoherently the rest of the way home. “Say, I have a good idea!” Buffy declared in a tone of forced cheerfulness as she steered him up the station steps and towards his building, bearing the bulk of his weight. “Why don’t I make us something to eat? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” The door man was so startled by Andrew’s appearance that Buffy had to talk him out of calling an ambulance. When he passed out in the elevator, she began to wonder if that was really the best decision she could have made. At least there was no one around to witness either the improbability or the indignity of a distinguished senior faculty member of one of Cambridge’s oldest and most respected Colleges being carried inside and put to bed by his teenaged daughter-in-law.

She dumped him fairly unceremoniously on the bed in his room, but the place was so ungodly neat that she couldn’t quite justify leaving his briefcase lying on the floor. She carried it into his study and flipped on the light, looking for a good place to put it. She only realized she’d been expecting to see a space crammed and cluttered with ancient books and documents piled on the surfaces and overflowing the selves when she saw instead the exact opposite. Giles’ study—much like his office and their one special table at the library had been—was an organization free zone. It was an oasis of clutter in the desert of his obsessive regimentation, a place where volumes and scrolls related to one another in a in messy, fluid, organic way sans label maker and card catalog. Buffy guessed she’d just assumed that was how Watching was done.

There was not so much as a book case in Andrew’s study, though his office downtown had been filled with almost nothing else. Instead, the walls were entirely lined with solid looking metal file cabinets climbing within inches of the ceiling. A quick random sampling suggested that every single one of them was locked. Buffy wasn’t sure yet whether she was curious enough to have a look anyway. She set the briefcase down on an entirely empty table and walked around behind Andrew’s desk. These drawers were also locked, but only with little privacy latches that could easily be jimmied with a bobby pin, thus avoiding the awkward undeniability of breaking a lock.

The large bottom right hand drawer, predictably enough, contained one full and one half-empty bottle of shockingly expensive scotch and four slightly-more-than-twice-the-size-of-a-shot glasses. There were two empties in the wastebasket despite the presence of little enough paper trash to suggest it had been emptied in the last forty-eight hours. Nor was this the only reservoir he’d been depleting. On the day that was rapidly becoming yesterday, Buffy had seen him drink a bloody Mary for breakfast, three glasses of whiskey from a decanter in his office (to Giles’ one) during their morning’s work, three glasses of wine (again to Giles’ one) with lunch, a large brandy (one to one this time) with desert and two tall gin-and-tonics (which she felt almost sure her husband had only declined in deference to her) all before they’d parted company around two p.m. Nevertheless, he had remained functionally sober, sharp even, throughout their abbreviated work day. Although he _had_ been noticeably drunk the previous evening from the bottle or two of scotch he’d evidently downed that day, he’d certainly been in no danger of falling over. Buffy shuttered to think what he must have consumed in the twelve hours between leaving his office and stumbling onto the last train home. She almost wondered if she should check on him to make sure he wasn’t dead.

Instead, she kept looking through the drawers. The top right was nothing but note paper, envelopes, etc. The only thing interesting about it was the chilling thought that anyone could be guarded enough to lock it. The bottom left drawer held books and the top left notes concerning them. Evidently this was where Andrew stored whatever he was in the middle of working on, what almost anyone else, including his son, would have left laying out. At the moment he seemed to be translating a couple of ancient prophesies and reading up on an organization called the Knights of Byzantium. Typical Watcher stuff, Buffy decided.

Finally, in the shallow middle drawer under the lip of the desktop itself, Buffy found something a little more interesting: a worn leather album containing three dozen old photographs. It was the kind where the corners of the photos fit into little pockets so that you can take them in and out without tearing anything up. Each was neatly labeled on the back in well-disciplined block letters. “ANDREW AND I AT THE SEASIDE WITH RUPERT—1959” read the back of the last photo, a very posed looking ‘snapshot’ of a stout, mature woman in a long caftan, a young man who could easily have been Giles and a small boy who really was. The child was the only one smiling as he proudly indicated a three dimensional representation of the textbook definition of “sand castle.”

This was Helena’s photo album, Buffy realized, thumbing through the rest, a sort of self-selected ‘greatest hits’ from her life. She started from the beginning. “PETER AND I AFTER OUR FIRST COUNCIL MEETING—1924”, “ANDREW: 8 DAYS OLD—28 FEB.1926”, “LYVIA WITH PENELOPE, BEFORE—1928.” Buffy stopped and examined the photo closely. It showed a woman in her late twenties (Peter’s sister judging from the caption and what Giles had explained of the family tree, mother of Julian the Intransigent) in what looked like a man’s shirt and trousers, standing next to a young girl, perhaps fifteen, in pedal pushers and a wide sunhat. 'Before.' Buffy moved on to the next picture. She already knew about 'After.'

The next three or four were evidently vaguely related people undergoing milestones and making memories that didn’t quite matter most of a century later. Those were followed by a very terse visual history of one woman’s life in England during The War, which culminated in “ANDREW COMING HOME—1946”. The dashing young man, in his RAF uniform, was giving the camera a roguish look that Buffy knew so well it was almost embarrassing. It was extremely creepy to think you could inherit something like _that look_ from your parents.

The next four photos were all of the same girl: once alone, once with Andrew and twice with Helena. She was beautiful, young (perhaps twelve in the beginning, in the end, no older than Buffy) and somehow familiar. From her resemblance to the rest of the Watcher Clan Buffy guessed at first. But something was amiss. Each shot of her had once been neatly labeled, but the labels had been blacked out, in whole or in part, almost as neatly, leaving blocks of solid ink among the remaining words so that the looked like secret document almost but not quite entirely released by the government. “XXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX—1946”, “ANDREW XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX—1947”, “XXXXXXXXXXXX AT CLARA’S WEDDING—1949”, “XXXXXXXXXXXX AT ANDREW’S COMMENCEMENT —1950.”

Buffy studied the girl’s face more closely. She didn’t look a thing like Helena or her cousins. There were no pictures of her after 1950 despite the fact that that decade made up the bulk of the album. Before; After. With a commiserable sigh, Buffy moved on.

Half of the remaining photos were of Giles as a child, most of them studio shots: “RUPERT—CHRISTMAS, 1951”, “RUPERT—EASTER, 1952”, etc. But one, the first in fact, was a little different, a little odd. It was labeled “RUPERTSIMON COMING HOME—20 FEB. 1951.” The first name was shoved into the space between his middle name and the edge of the photo, neatly shoved but shoved just the same. He was frowning in bitter annoyance and disdain (in a way that made a tiny part of Buffy feel gooey with quasi-maternal affection, despite the very prickly feeling that the weirdness of everything else related to the photo was giving her) at the troubled looking young man who held him. It was not Andrew.

Buffy didn’t know a ton about babies, but this one didn’t look like a newborn. He was gripping his rattle with a firm, determined hand, and he had a full head of hair. February 20th was _Andrew’s_ unlucky birthday. But in Giles’ case... not a best guess, Buffy realized, a deliberate revision. Of all the dates to have chosen (even if it did happen to be the day that his mother (?) her husband maybe (?) had handed him over according to whatever quasi-medieval probate customs existed among the stateless Tribe of Watcherdom) Helena had really gone for the most brutally ironic reference available. Or maybe just the date that meant the most to her, good bad or indifferent. Buffy shuddered. ‘You exist here. It is _not_ linear.’

Buffy though about taking the whole album, but she figured it would take Andrew longer to miss the individual picture. Though when he did miss it, it would be impossible to claim it had been misplaced. Buffy didn’t mind that so much. She didn’t feel a bit wrong for taking it, even if she didn’t want to argue with Andrew about it right now. That photograph belonged in the hands of someone who had a lot more right to it than Andrew Giles. Someone whose real name might appear on a real birth certificate after all.

****

Quentin made quite sure he was alone before initiating his trans-Atlantic telephone call. He would have to tell both Peter and Gale some measure of the truth, and soon. But not quite the same truth that he needed to tell Mr. Weatherby at once.

“I understand,” Weatherby assured him gravely when he had attained a firm idea of what action was being taken against Quentin and why. “We can’t let them get away with this corruption. The business of the Council must be done and if those who call themselves our leaders will not do what is right, then we must.”

“I knew I could count of you, Mr. Weatherby,” Quentin declared, though he was actually inexpressibly relieved.

“What do you want me to do first?” Weatherby asked.

“First we must accelerate the experiments we had already planned. We must act quickly, while we still have the personnel. Most of our people over there will be recalled almost at once. They will lack your clarity in seeing that the current composition of the Council is illegitimate. If we are to continue our war against the darkness, we must have our own instrument with which to fight. We must begin by settling once and for all the truth or falsity of the Event Process Theory and acting on that information. And for that, I’m afraid, we must have a subject upon which to experiment.”

“I can think of a pretty simple, one-step test,” Weatherby suggested.

“Which we are in no position to perform without drawing immediate scrutiny from the Council,” Quentin replied. He did not add, of course, that he wished to avoid the extremely unpleasant response such a ‘test’ would have no doubt elicited from Rupert Giles.

“I thought as much,” Weatherby assured him,“I'm already a step ahead of you there. I’ll get you your ‘subject,’ Mr. Travers. By tomorrow, if she’s still Slayer enough. I've got a surefire plan already set in motion to flush her out.”

****

“They’re not setting any bail Douglas,” Dr. Oliver said grimly. “And anything beyond that is… over my head.” The General Counsel for the hospital was both a physician and a lawyer. In addition to all of the administrative law that any large organization has to deal with, he knew malpractice inside and out. He was used to dealing with deadly serious accusations of homicide against his doctors, but not the kind where someone is threatening to kill them right back. “I can try to help you find a good criminal lawyer,” he offered. “Of course, they are going to want cash. A lot of it. I mean like six figures. At _least_ fifty grand for anyone I could even halfway recommend. I wish I could let you expense it, you’re worth it to us, I hope you know that, but it’s not work related.”

Douglas shook his head. “I’ve spent my whole goddamned life in school,” he said. “This is my first really good job as far as _money_ goes and not just bragging rights: prestigious fellowship, youngest goddamned whatever. I’ve got about twelve grand in savings and thirty-eight hundred in my checking account. I can bust my retirement accounts, I guess, but that’s at a fifty percent penalty, so we’re still only talking about another nine thousand. I just bought a new fucking car, so of course I’m underwater in it. I think the goddamn cops took it anyway. There’s a little equity in the house… Ah, fuck! They’re probably searching it right now!”

“Jesus!” Dr. Oliver gasped, going suddenly pale. “Douglas… I just assumed…”

“You assumed right,” Douglas reassured him. “I swear to God, Calvin, I didn’t do this. I’ve never killed anyone in my life, although you may as well know I’ve come pretty close a time or two, which is bound to be all over the so-called news by tomorrow. ‘Boy genius doctor has shocking history of violence, and ooo, just look at his messed up family! Tune in at eleven for a special fucking interview with the ex-step monster!’” Doug quieted a minute, not calmed, just tired. “But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing I don’t want the cops to find in my house,” he added after a while. “Which… I know there’s nothing you can do about that, so don’t get worried I’m going to ask. Just… thanks for everything, really, and tell Eva… I’m sorry I’m such an asshole.”

“You’re going to live through this, Douglas,” Dr. Oliver said firmly.

“That’s an optimistic prognosis, Doctor,” Doug pointed out, “especially coming from a GP. And very especially when you’ve just told me I can’t really afford a good specialist.”

“This isn’t a civil case,” Oliver argued earnestly, as much with himself as with Douglas Ericson. How are they going to prove something beyond a reasonable doubt if it never happened?”

“Easily,” Doug pointed out. “Just think about who they have to prove it to. Twelve knuckle heads whose only unifying quality is having enough belief in the system to register to vote. The reasonableness of their doubts isn’t the problem. It’s their unreasonable lack of doubt. My mom was a junkie. My real dad’s a convicted murderer. My _daughter’s_ a serial killer at sixteen! Do you think John and Mary Doe are going to skeptically apply the null hypothesis to whether this hard round thing laying under an oak tree is an acorn? Just try convincing an average person that what they already know ain’t so, I dare you! Three out of four Americans expect to be _personally_ raised from the dead, and the only reason it’s not higher is some people figure they’re not good enough! Most people don’t need evidence, Cal. They have ‘faith’.”

****

Giles awoke to find the book he’d fallen asleep reading, “Comparative Theory and Critical Observations on the Decent of the Chosen” closed on the bedside table with the end of a large piece of cardstock sticking out where his place had obviously been marked. Buffy was sleeping peacefully beside him wearing a set of his pajamas. Both the sleeves and the legs were rolled into big, loose, bulky cuffs. She looked heart-achingly precious. He wanted to hold her in his arms.

He also wanted desperately to know what had transpired at last night’s meeting. He forced himself to let her sleep. There was no telling what time she’d gotten in, but it had to have been after two o’clock, when he had finally gone to sleep himself. He glanced at the clock now. They had a few hours before any of the ‘social’ engagements they both had lined up for the day. He picked up his book intending to read it again. He took out the place holder and was only mildly surprised and intrigued to find that it was a black-and-white photograph of a young man holding an infant. Until he read the caption on the back.

“Good Lord!” he gasped.

“What about him?” said Andrew crispy, standing in the hallway in his bathrobe looking like the first half of a Vi-sine commercial. It was an automated parental response on the order ‘yes what?’ or ‘not until you’ve finished your vegetables.’ Even the subtle mixture of amusement and contempt with which he said it was part of the old routine.

“Good morning, Father,” Giles said, making his features and voice impassive. He dropped the photograph inside the book and closed it.

Andrew glared at his son a moment knowing he couldn’t look that innocent without being up to something. He wondered if it was of a piece with the villainy he already knew about or if it was something else. Then his eyes fell on the sleeping girl. His heart fisted up for a moment. “Poor child!” he sighed almost involuntarily, his voice and features softening. Rupert gave him a startled, incredulous look. Andrew ignored it. “She’ll be dead in a year,” he mumbled shaking his head, hovering in the doorway, purposeless.

Giles traded his confusion for grim amusement. Obviously his father was still drunk from the night before. He was becoming a maudlin drunk in his old age. “Come on you old fool,” Giles said, almost tenderly, “let’s get something in your stomach before you fall over.”

“Experience is the school mistress of fools,” Andrew mumbled bitterly, as he followed his son into the kitchen. “All right, all right, be a fool then. Who am I to stop you? I’m only your father.”

Giles refrained from pointing out that little more than a month ago Andrew had been plotting to insure that which he now lamented. He smiled to himself. It was easy to get a bad first impression of Buffy, to see her as a frivolous, undignified obstacle to more important things. In fact she seemed to work very, very hard at being underestimated, undervalued even. But it was hard to stay uncharitably disposed to her in the face of her relentless, ineffaceable warmth and strength, even if you never discovered her brilliance and depth. Andrew had been forced to look much too closely at Buffy to pretend there was nothing there. She was growing on him. He too was on the lookout for an alternative sacrifice.

****

What was a person supposed to pack to go to jail? Willow wondered. Engels had said ‘bring a toothbrush’ but that was probably just a conventional expression. There had to be other things she would need. Shouldn’t there be a handbook or something? A list of what they provided and of what she was _allowed_ to have? She hadn’t found any policies online. The laptop was out, obviously, but what about books? What would they do with anything she wasn’t allowed to have? She guessed she could send them home with Ms. Waddle. Couldn’t she? She knew she didn’t need clothes as such because they had those yellow jumpsuits, but what about underwear? She fervently hoped that wasn’t shared like the jumpsuits. Surely not. So, underwear. How much underwear? How much opportunity was there to do laundry in jail?

Oh darn, laundry! Willow looked at the clock on her bedside table, it was half past midnight. She was wearing her last remaining pair of clean panties and the one of Sheila’s bras that almost fit because it was meant to compress her mother’s slightly larger breasts. Although she was glad to have the doors fixed, she wished she had the time back that she’d spent that afternoon and evening chasing down a carpenter and a lock smith and bribing them to drop whatever else they were doing. Xander would be there in four and a half hours to share her last moments of freedom, time she did _not_ want to spend doing laundry, but she _had_ to sleep at some point. And right now, even the thought of gathering up her dirty clothes was exhausting. She wished there were an easier way of getting everything done.

Of course, there probably was. Supposedly, Willow wasn’t doing magic anymore except for her continued quest for the means of undoing. And in cases of dire necessity. But her definition of dire necessity had been getting pretty broad lately. And anyway, it was her decision. Nobody was putting limits on her but herself anymore. Oz was out of the picture and Giles _wanted_ her to sign up with Ms. Waddle with an eye towards going pro. Of course, she knew what Rabbi Mike would say. She knew what Ira Rosenberg would say too. Willow sighed and started gathering things up. Any spell she could have done would have taken more effort to learn than it took to do the laundry anyway.

What she really needed, Willow thought idly, was a way to get a good night’s sleep in a couple of hours. That thought sparked other thoughts. Synapses fired. Suddenly the thoughts were not so idle. By the time Willow had the laundry in the washer, she had an idea what sort of a spell she was looking for. By the time the buzzing of that machine pulled her from Amy’s mother’s books and alerted her to put the clothes in the dryer, she’d found something that she thought would do as a starting place. When the dryer buzzed, she let it go on until it stopped by itself. At 2:35 a.m. she got up from the desk in Ira’s study, closed his books and Katherine’s and turned off his computer. She pulled the spell she’d just written from his old tractor fed dot matrix printer, making a mental note that she should really set the rest of the computers in the house to work with the new wireless inkjet she’d gotten for her laptop.

Willow yawned. She was exhausted, but she honestly didn’t expect to be for long. Admittedly, she was experimenting. But the theory behind it was simple enough. There were no emotions or essences involved, just a heartfelt supplication to a couple of goddesses who had already proven themselves willing and able to be of service and a clinical description of the physical/chemical processes she wanted done. Since she was willingly doing them to herself, there wouldn’t be any psychic resistance to be overcome. She could think of no reason why it shouldn’t work.

Just for a minute, as she went through her kitchen cabinets gathering the herbs and oils she’d chosen to make her supplication, searching for exactly what she needed with ritualistic thoroughness, Willow considered asking Someone Else for help first. But she knew she was nowhere near the level of purity and obedience necessary to dare to try invoking His power or assistance. Not for all the sheep in Egypt.

Defeating guilt with defiance, making a necessity of a convenience and a virtue of necessity, she sat down at her temporarily sacred kitchen table and lit a tiny brass oil burner that Amy had given her to use during her aborted apprenticeship. As she added her fragrant ingredients to the heated metal bowl, she chanted, calling with genuine gratitude upon those whom she knew were not likely to find her or her offerings wanting. When she felt sufficiently assured in her hope that she was to be blessed, Willow stretched out in Ira’s recliner and read her computer printout aloud. The instant the last syllable left her lips she fell into a deep sleep.

From Willow's perspective, if she had been aware enough to be said to have had a perspective, all the clocks in the house, all the clocks in the universe, the universe itself, might have seemed to have been slowed to an unbearable ‘tick... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... tick... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... tick....’ What really happened was that every cell in Willow's body experienced twelve hours of biological processes in about twenty minutes, but without any of the stresses that might be expected from speeding up any of those processes, because every complementary and compensating process was happening just as quickly.

In fact, stresses and tensions of every kind were being released. A profound state of rest and relaxation was hers. Processes that had been stalled for days during a chemical siege of sustained panic were set in motion and took their natural course at maximum velocity. Dreams were dreamed and forgotten. Emotions and experiences were processed along with masses of other chemical and electrical data. Willow slept and was restored.

***

_Buffy was running through a beautiful field of green grass and splendid purple flowers. She was filled with joy. The sun was shining. Giles would be meeting her here any minute. All was right with the world. A flash of color caught her eye. With nothing better to do she approached it, stooping and looking down with casual curiosity._

_At her feet was a tiny mound of earth; covered, carpeted in blood red flowers. At the head of the mound, almost flush with the ground, gray granite glinted in the grass. Buffy knelt, her round belly brushing against the rounded earth, and pushed the tender green blades aside to reveal a single word chiseled in stone:_ **MOM**.

_Buffy stiffened in horror as tiny pink hands shot out of the ground and pulled her flat against the Earth until the swell of her belly and the swell of the Earth were one, until what was buried there moved within her. A voice thundered from the heavens. “The Key is the Link! The Link must be severed! Such is the will of God!”_

“ _Giles!” she cried, “Giles help me!”_

_He smiled blandly down at her, looking rakish and cavalier in his RAF uniform and his neatly trimmed mustache. “I’m_ _a Watcher,” he explained with a sort of mournful dignity. “The Council will always come before the Slayer. That’s our way. It’s in the blood, My Dear, in the family.” He was holding her in his arms. They were both crying. He was over seventy years old now, but she was still only twenty-two: limited, forever, to that brief span of years. And still she surpassed him. Easily. She was boundless. He flickered dimly in her light, like the shadow of a meteor against the Sun._

_He brushed her long dark hair back from her green eyes so that she could watch the universe slowly, infinitely receding. She sang, and her voice like a siren called the boy from his bed just as he had innocently, unknowingly called her back to this fateful place, this trap. He stood in the doorway, wide eyed with love and horror. She was seeing him for the first time in over four years. He was beautiful; a sight worth dying for. “Hush, Child,” her Watcher said, “Go back to bed, it’s alright.”_

“ _It’s not alright!” he shouted. He was forty-seven now, or possibly twenty-four. Anguish was the soul of his rage. “Damn it, it is not alright! Buffy! Buffy!” he shouted grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her, jarring her limp body as he tried to pull her from Andrew’s arms, tried to pull her free of the enveloping void. But it was too late. She was beyond all hope of redemption._

“Buffy! Buffy! Wake up!” Giles shouted, breathless with distress. Buffy opened her eyes and choked back a scream. She wrenched her shoulders from his grasp and scuttled backwards crouching against the headboard, blinking away tears. Her heart was hammering. It slowed a little as she realized who and where they were. She ran her hand instinctively over her abdomen finding its familiar almost-but-not-quite-round shape and not-as-yet-squirminess inexpressibly reassuring. “You were dreaming again,” Giles half apologized, still sounding very worried.

“Yeah,” Buffy panted, relieved, getting her feet out from under her. “It was just a dream.”

“ _Just_ a dream?” Giles worried aloud. “You mentioned ‘the will of God’ again. What do you remember this time?”

“Nothing!” Buffy snapped much, much too harshly. Then, as her heart rate slowed further she added, truthfully, “I really don’t remember much. There was a... a grave?” she mumbled, looking down at her hands. “Mine, I think,” she added, almost inaudibly. “It was um... I don’t know... part of the time I was someone else or you were or something. You... you killed me,” she whispered, “and then you argued with yourself about it. So, like I said,” she declared with shaky resolution looking up into his anguished eyes, “just a dream.”

Giles looked away, ashamed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, dangling his glasses from his free hand. “Yes,” he murmured, “Just a dream.” Not prophesy, just processing, he tried to reassure himself. Buffy had not had a glimpse nine months into her future; she was only struggling to make sense of the knowledge that she’d been sharing her bed for weeks with a bona fide murderer. Giles sighed. He really was very sorry but it seemed at once excessive and inadequate to keep saying so. “Well, it’s over now,” he said instead. “Why don’t you tell me how the meeting went while we get dressed for lunch.”

****

An urgent signal from the part of Willow's brain that was intimately connected with her bladder brought her yawning and stretching to consciousness. Her clothes were sticky with sweat and her tongue slightly swollen with thirst. Otherwise, she felt gloriously refreshed. It was dark. For a moment, she thought she’d slept right through the day and into the next night. But before she even had time to realize that would have meant missing court and to panic, she saw that the time was 3:30 a.m., twenty minutes after she had gone to sleep. She remembered well why this should be so.

It was only after she had addressed her more urgent bodily needs that Willow realized she was starving. For a moment she considered the breakfast leftovers she knew to be in her fridge. Scrambled eggs and turkey bacon. Turkey bacon! Willow smiled at the ridiculousness of such a compromise between tradition and assimilation; between submission and conformity. It seemed a fitting symbol for all the ways in which her life so far had been a monument to cognitive dissonance and self denial. Well, no more. From here on out, Willow Rosenberg was through living her life to someone else’s specifications.

Willow laughed out loud and nearly sang a defiant stanza from a old country song that Jessica Harris was want to turn up much too loud behind her slammed door when she was drunk and feeling neglected, _‘_ _♫_ _I’m hungry for laughter! And here ever after! I’m after whatever the other life brings!_ _♪_ _’_ She still had an hour and a half before her lover was due to arrive. She took a quick shower, put on her still slightly warm underwear, dressed in her hottest pair of leather pants and a provocative, low-cut purple top, glammed on a perfect makeup job to save time and headed to Mr. Doughnut. She decided to get a dozen jelly-glazed, just to see what all the hype was about.

****

In less than half an hour, Buffy and Giles were standing on the doorstep of one of a long row of large conjoined houses built in the eighteenth century to account for the growing ambiguity between the working and oppressing classes. “I can’t wear this,” Buffy worried aloud. “This blouse feels like it’s about to pop open, and it looks stupid out like this, and even stupider tucked in with the elastic in this stupid skirt.”

“You look fine. Erm, that is, you look... lovely,” Giles tried to reassure her.

“Thanks,” said Buffy dryly, “very convincing.”

“Hand to God,” he swore. Except for the shoes, which were bizarrely tall and square at only one end, he more or less meant it. Her dark blue calf length skirt and pinstriped blouse were plain but dignified, though admittedly the outfit could have benefited from a jack and or a belt to hide the inelegance of the waistline.

Buffy looked at him as if to say she appreciated the effort but still wasn’t buying it. She started patting and pulling at her hair near the scalp, trying to see in the reflective brass surface that backed the ornamental door knocker exactly how long her honey colored roots had gotten since Dr. Kim had told her to stop using industrial solvents on her hair. “Maybe you could tell them I got sick at the last minute?” she suggested hopefully.

“We’re already, _here_ ,” Giles pointed out. He stopped himself before adding that their hosts were probably watching them right now wondering what the devil was going on. He knew damn well that her fashion related self-criticism was a symptom more than a cause her anxiety. After last night, Buffy was weary of being examined and wary of being judged. Keeping a reassuring hand on her shoulder, he rang the bell.

Phillip Robson greeted them warmly, his wife Lilith by his side, smiling tightly. She was ten years older than her husband. Her hair was dyed an unnatural shade of black that made her translucent skin look like old waxed paper, an effect that was made worse by the application of too much salmon colored lipstick. Her small dark eyes were bright and alert as if expecting danger. There was enough concealer beneath them to reveal that vast dark circles were being hidden. Her eyebrows had been plucked completely out and drawn back on with an oily looking dark brown pen. “Delighted to meet you, My Dear,” she all but sang, the volume, tone and lilt of her voice trying desperately to communicate joviality and friendliness.

Buffy smiled as widely as she could, politely reciprocating her words of greeting. They were shown into a pleasant little living room where everyone was awaiting the imminent announcement that lunch was served. Besides Robson and his wife, there waited the oldest of his two sons, Martin (who was twenty-five and a Watcher) and Mildred, the youngest of his three daughters (who was eighteen and going to be) along with the five children of their two older sisters, a pack of glossy haired, rosy cheeked girls aged five to eleven, scampering about in old-fashioned satin dresses with sashes that matched the bows in their hair. “They’re out of school for the Easter Holiday,” Lilith explained as though the children’s presence somehow required tolerance. They were behaving fine as far as Buffy could tell. Much better than their aunt and uncle, who were openly staring at her and whispering things in each other’s ears that made Mildred blush and her brother smirk.

Buffy supposed she was being paranoid to think they were sneering at her appearance. She decided they were probably saying something about her sexual relationship with Giles, who was, she realized, a grownup from their own childhoods. But when the introductions required her to extend her hand to them she realized they had probably been arguing, because they were not on the same page at all where she was concerned. They each clasped her hand briefly but firmly, Martin with near snarling disdain and Mildred with a sort of mute awe, her eyes as wide as his were narrow. Mildred actually trembled at her touch, while Martin half unconsciously wiped his hand on his shirt.

Buffy could have laughed. “You’ve never met a...” she didn’t know what word to use in the presence of the children, “a what I am before,” she surmised, focusing on the more positive reception. Mildred shook her head, blushing again.

“What is she?” a tall, shrewd faced, brunette child asked her grandmother. Lilith looked uncomfortably at her husband. Martin glowered at everyone with absolute contempt.

“She is the Slayer,” Robson informed the gaggle of girls matter-of-factly. “We’re an open household,” he explained conversationally in response to Giles’ look of mild shock, ignoring the girls gasps and excited whispers as well as his wife’s displeased facial compressions. “The Robsons have always believed that the Watching family functions as a whole unit. Even those members who are not Watchers need to be familiar from an early age with the purpose that we serve. We’ve never hidden the existence of the Slayer from our children.”

“Of course, we’ve never discussed the _identity_ of the Slayer before,” Lilith pointed out thinly, trying to soften her reproach with a small, brittle laugh.

“Our girls can keep a secret,” he assured her dismissively. “Can’t you girls?” There was much bobbing of little heads and excited murmuring of agreement. Buffy and Giles exchanged an uneasy look.

“Can _we_ touch her?” asked a tiny blond cherub, still bobbing up and down. Buffy smiled nervously at Giles, who looked pointedly at Robson and glanced very slightly at the chairs and couches towards the center of the room.

“Why don’t we all have a seat,” Robson finally suggested. They sat. The small sofa that Buffy chose was instantly filled well beyond capacity with children, and to defend them against hurt feelings from their grandmother’s continued attempts to shoo them off of her, she found herself insisting that they please stay and holding the youngest in her lap. Martin and Mildred, she noticed, without _seeming_ to hurry had managed to get into the two chairs on either end of the sofa, while Giles was left to share the sofa facing opposite with Mr. and Mrs. Robson.

“What’s it like being the Slayer?” asked the tall one, who was not named Birgitta. Buffy thought ruefully of a few words by Thomas Hobbs she’d once been forced to memorize, something ending in ‘...nasty, poor, brutish and short.’ She smiled weakly.

“Tell us a story!” agreed the littlest one who, against all probability, actually was called Gretel. All the children clamored their assent and even Mildred couldn’t help leaning eagerly forward. So did Martin, just a little, despite having his arms crossed in a dumb show declaration of disinterest and contempt.

Buffy tried hard to think of anything at all about her life that was G or even PG rated. “Well...” she stalled when nothing came to her, “how much do you know about monsters?”

“Monsters aren’t real,” said Gretel confidently, “Mummy told me.”

“Are so!” insisted a seven or eight year-old who was evidently not her sister, “ _my_ mum told me Grandad killed a dragon!” Buffy raised an eyebrow at Robson, who looked embarrassed, but held his peace. Giles fidgeted uncomfortably.

“Monsters aren’t real except for vampires,” not-Brigitta explained haughtily, “and they’re not really monsters. They’re demons. Anything that looks like a monster is really a demon and the Slayer has to kill them all and cut off their heads, don’t you!” Gretel looked up and over her shoulder at Buffy apprehensively. Robson was amused, but both Giles and Lilith seemed on the verge of intervening if only they could decide how best to go about it.

“Well,” said Buffy, primarily to Gretel, “that shows how much any of you know, because it just so happens that one of my very best friends is a werewolf, which is not a demon at all but a person who turns into a monster three nights every month. In fact I have a special tranquilizer gun just for hunting werewolves, so that nobody gets hurt.”

“You don’t kill them then?” Martin demanded, socked and making certain his voice showed it.

Buffy’s brow furrowed. “Why would I do that?”

“To protect innocent lives,” said Mildred earnestly as one reciting a well known fact.

“Ummmmm, except for the innocent lives of people who happen to get bit by werewolves,” Buffy countered, a sardonic edge to her voice.

“Are there very many werewolves in London?” Gretel asked worriedly.

“None at all,” Lilith assured her crisply, “they only live in America.” Not-Brigitta opened her mouth to correct this bit of misinformation, but Lilith stopped her with a look. “Girls,” she said firmly, “Come along, let’s get washed up.”

“What’s all this Rubbish about killing werewolves?” Robson demanded of his son and daughter as soon as Lilith and the children had cleared out.

“It’s better for them to die than to go on harming and infecting others!” Martin argued fervently. He was clearly spoiling for a fight and had evidently decided this one would do.

“Is _that_ what their teaching nowadays?” Robson scoffed bitterly.

Mildred was wide eyed looking from her father to her brother, wilting from her inability to agree with both of them simultaneously. “It’s what Mrs. Dunstan says,” she managed haltingly, taking a firm stand on neither side of the issue.

“Mrs. Dunstan says a lot of things,” Giles mumbled dryly shaking his head in a way that said he was appalled but not surprised. “Emma,” he clarified disdainfully for Buffy’s benefit, realizing she had no way of knowing which Mrs. Dunstan would have been currently teaching that subject matter. “She married Michael’s oldest son.”

“Emma...?” suddenly the name registered. Buffy looked shocked, amused and displeased all at the same time. Emma Travers, now apparently Dunstan, Giles’ technically aunt: celebrating over seventy years of screwing up other people’s lives by running her mouth about things she didn’t understand.

Robson was giving Buffy a funny look, or she thought he was. “I must have a talk with a few people about who’s teaching the teachers,” he muttered. His words seemed very much a response to what his daughter had said, but his eyes were still focused on Buffy. She straightened her face up and tried to think of something strong enough to say on the importance of not killing innocent werewolves. But Giles was already saying it.

“You children listen here and listen good!” he scolded the two young people indignantly, “Your own native moral instincts ought to tell you that it isn’t right to... _murder_ a human being simply because you’re afraid they _might_ pose a threat when you haven’t even _tried_ working with them first! You were born with those instincts for a reason, and you’ll find you save yourselves a lot of trouble in life if you listen to them, whatever anyone tells you, Watcher or no. Your duty, your most important duty as a Watcher, isn’t to _train_ the Slayer to _fight_! Half the time that’s carrying coals to Newcastle. The _essence_ of... of being a Watcher is keeping the Slayer grounded... morally grounded! To... to... to provide _guidance_ —!”

“Can you not _hear_ yourself!” Martin shouted, gesturing broadly in Buffy’s direction. Here, at last, was the fight he really wanted to have.

“Martin—” Robson began warningly.

“No! Damn it, no!” Martin shouted, “Don’t you dare defend him! I know what the two of you are up to, _Father_ , and it is a damned disgrace!”

“Martin!” Lilith scolded appearing in the doorway. “I will not have you speak to your father that way in this house!” To Buffy’s surprise, her admonition actually silenced him. “Now,” Lilith said crisply, “it’s time for lunch.” Her tone made it abundantly clear that there was to be no more discussion of what was to be done with Slayers or with monsters.

****

Faith’s eyes flew open at the feeling of being watched. She sat up, senses sharp, primed for battle. The blonde infant was hovering in the doorway. She dropped her gaze when Faith made eye contact. “What?” Faith demanded.

“I’m hungry,” the girl said quietly without looking up. “There’s nothing to eat here.”

Faith thought a minute. “Do you have any money?” she asked. The girl shook her pretty blonde head. “Then we have to get some,” she reasoned aloud. The girl looked up at last, hopefully, expectantly. Like a puppy. “Do you have anything you can sell?” Faith asked. The girl squirmed and cut her eyes in the direction of the bed. Faith felt under the mattress and found what _looked_ like about a quarter cup of coarse, irregularly grained, not-quite-white-or-brown sugar in a rolled up zip-lock bag.

“Crystal,” the girl explained. “Fifty grams minus a couple of lines. $600 worth if we bought it straight out. We were supposed to cut it up and sell it for 2500 and pay Lizard back 2Gs in two weeks. If we take it, we have to leave town,” she added.

“Don’t screw guys who deal on credit,” Faith advised, still examining the crystalline substance critically. “It’s not worth it.” She thought for a minute. If this guy Smack could afford to eat a loss like that, he wouldn’t be staying in a dump like this. “Does he do this every two weeks?” she asked.

The girl shook her head again. “It’s the first work he’s had since he got out of jail this last time,” she said.

“Do you know who he’s hoping to sell it to?” Faith asked. More head shaking. “Get me something to write with,” she instructed her pet. The girl rummaged in her huge macramé purse, which was in Faith’s closet, and came up with half a lost dog flier and a bank pen with a dozen tiny metal balls attached. Faith wrote her note on the blank side of the paper, folded it and stuck it under the mattress where the drugs had been. She tossed the baggie to her new partner in crime. “Put this in your pocket and hand me your purse,” she said. “We’re going shopping.”

****

“Well, I think that went rather well,” Giles joked an hour later as he sat with Robson in his back garden smoking an honest-to-God Cuban cigar.

“He’ll vote how I bloody well tell him to vote!” Robson seethed. Still smarting from the tongue lashing his son had given him before finally stomping out between desert and coffee. I won’t have this kind of impertinence in my own house! From my own son!”

“He’s twenty-five,” Giles reminded his friend in a way that was somehow grim, dismissive and affectionate all at the same time.

“Which is still half-again as old as your wife,” Robson pointed out. Buffy was in the basement training room giving Mildred a workout. Her enthusiasm for meeting a _real_ Slayer had not been dulled by her brother’s storm of temper. In fact, she had accepted the honor of loaning Buffy some of her exercise clothes with a look of reverence that suggested she might never wash them again.

“My _point_ is,” Giles said thinly, “he’s just... being idealistic, which is, to a great extent, more or less a good thing. He’ll get a better feel for the more and the less of it as he gets older.”

“I _know_ that,” Robson argued back, his voice also a little strained. “But it’s humiliating! My own son defying me in Council! Or threatening to. Besides, we need the vote.” He sat smoking for a couple of minutes, calming himself. “For a shilling, I’d let you have this job,” he said, more seriously than joking. “And I’d pay the shilling myself.”

“I can just imagine trying to drum up the votes for _that_ ,” Giles said with a wan smile.

“It’s just,” Robson complained, “I get so bloody tired of all the politics and infighting. I miss being I _real_ Watcher. I don’t _want_ to... set policies and come down on people and try to straighten out my elders on the human rights of werewolves. I want to fight evil and... and—”

“Slay dragons?” Giles interjected dryly, raising an amused eyebrow.

Robson smiled back. “I _did_ mention the fact that it was asleep,” he half apologized. “I _might_ not have put sufficient emphasis on how many of us there were.”

“Right, well at any rate,” Giles fumbled for a change of subject, suddenly unamused, remembering and feeling more than he wanted to about the circumstances of Christine’s death, “perhaps _Peter_ ought to have a talk with some of the younger Watchers, give them a chance to express their indignation and get the facts of life from someone closer to their own age.”

“Would you like me to suggest it to him?” Robson offered.

“That might be more appropriate,” Giles agreed.

“And a bit less awkward than asking Quentin to maneuver him into suggesting it to us,” Robson added with grim amusement.

Giles ignored this completely, smoking his cigar. It seemed Robson really was tired of playing Council games. Unfortunately, the game on which his and Buffy’s future was staked was far from over. “Morrison seems to think we have our work cut out for us,” he said gravely after a while. “He thinks Houses are going to split, to break ranks over… this vote.”

“I doubt if Julian would speak to me if I called him right now,” Robson admitted. “I don’t know if I can deliver a single vote or not. I don’t know if _he_ can for that matter.”

“Morrison said something else,” Giles went on. “He mentioned the ‘Potential crisis’, said it was putting a strain on the Council.”

“It is,” Robson confirmed but did not elaborate.

“What are we up to, eighteen, now is it?” Giles inquired.

Robson nodded hesitantly. He was quiet for a moment, then he leaned forward into the fringes of Giles’ personal space. His eyes shifted slightly as if suppressing an urge to look around for unseen listeners. “This is in strictest confidence,” he said with quiet urgency.

“Of course,” Giles agreed, surprised and intrigued. And perhaps a little worried.

“That’s eighteen _confirmed_ ” Robson explained, “only because we have tightened our criteria for confirmation and slowed down the process even in cases where the fact of a Potential is beyond all serious doubt. We’ve even set an age limit of thirteen years, since no Slayer in recorded history has yet been called before that time. By the standards of two years ago, there are no less than fifty-three Potentials, each with an assigned Watcher, even if she doesn’t know it yet. There are ninety-seven more girls under observation, about a fourth of which, experience tells us, will probably turn out to be, and we’re still identifying new prospects at the rate of one every six weeks.”

“Dear Lord!” Giles gasped, “Is it—? Do you think—? Could we be so near the end?”

“The end of something at least,” said Robson grimly, “though of course, no one wants to admit it. That’s why everyone who’s in a position to know this has suddenly become so enamored with Event Process Theory. It’s the only explanation that wouldn’t mean— Well, and when none of them was called at the time of Kendra’s passing...” Giles nodded gravely. It must have been quite a blow to those who’d been comforting themselves with the thought that the world might be on the verge of a golden age of multiple Slayers.

“The _official_ explanation is still that we’re simply getting better at identifying Potentials,” Robson went on, “that there have really been dozens at all times throughout history...”

Giles smiled darkly. “So, we are to believe that it is an enormous coincidence that there has been, throughout history, a ninety-one percent correlation between being identified as a Potential and being called as a Slayer?”

“Evidently,” Robson agreed dryly. “Though even that hardly explains why no one has ever actually met a Potential who was more than twenty years of age, or why those who have died without being called have all met violent and/or supernatural ends. Rupert, the average age of these girls is about twelve, and half a dozen of them are already over fifteen. If there aren’t about to be multiple Slayers...”

“In five or six years,” Giles whispered, suppressing a shudder, “they’ll all be dead.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” Robson admitted, “under the circumstances.”

“But now you have,” said Giles quietly.

“Yes,” Robson answered glumly. “Only a dozen Watchers outside the Inner Council have been told the full extent of this, but a lot more know enough to guess something in the right direction. It’s hard not to when suddenly half the Watchers you know have their very own charges (whatever they’re being called) and you’re on three or four tracking teams instead of one. It’s just too big to keep a lid on.

Giles gave a mild, ironic laugh and shook his head. “No wonder we can’t get any field support,” he said.

“If it wasn’t for the Permanent Staff,” Robson agreed, “we wouldn’t even be able to keep the archives running. Original research has fallen by two thirds in the last year and it was hardly at an all-time high before that. Almost all of our (for lack of a better word) political work is being done by agents and staffers except for those Watchers who already happened to be very highly placed and even they are being called upon to do direct service at the same time. Do you _know_ how hard it is to explain a strange teenage girl joining the household of a Cabinet Minister?

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Giles agreed.

“A certain Distinguished Gentleman we both know was told by a Downing Street colleague that he ought to move to America where ‘that sort of thing’ is apparently acceptable,” Robson added with a rueful smile. “Some of them want your head just for that, you know. And of course,” he went on, “This state of affairs has us scraping the bottom of the barrel for qualified instructors to train new Watchers _and_ pushing young people in that direction who might actually prefer or be more suited to other careers. We’ve pulled our Michael out of Eaton and sent him to Walsington so that he can study with the Watchers who are already teaching there and Mary and Martha have both gone to work for the Permanent Staff. With the lack of actual Watchers, some of those jobs are becoming so sensitive that they can only be trusted to ‘Could Have Beens’ as this new Caste is so inelegantly being called.”

“Why is everyone so sure that no new Slayer has been called,” Giles asked, suddenly wanting very much to be convinced of the unassailable logic of Event Process Theory or at least reassured that there was a Chain of Calling in which Buffy’s place was already fixed, that the death she must suffer before these girls were called (whether it be as a swarm or a succession of Mayflies) was already behind her.

“ _Mostly_ because we’ve identified so many Potentials that there is a good chance it should have been one of them,” Robson admitted. Giles sagged visibly with relief. “Also because several very well respected seers have told us so.” Giles’ heart tightened up again.

They sat for a while in pensive silence. They finished their cigars and left the stumps in an ash tray. “There is one... missing Potential,” Robson admitted at length though his tone betrayed little if any hope, “One of the oldest ones in fact. Sixteen. She disappeared about the time of her mother’s murder apparently, so she may be dead. Or a murderer. Quentin was supposed to be locating her, though he’s yet to report any results. The seers examined several of her belongings which were obtained from her grandmother and from a former foster family. They’ve assured us she is not the Slayer.”

Giles’ focus sharpened. “It was Quentin, I suppose, who provided the belongings to be examined?”

Robson pulled at his chin thoughtfully, “Yes,” he admitted, the seeds of suspicion growing and blossoming in his voice as he spoke, “Indeed it was.”

****

“Goddamn this is a beautiful day!” Faith declared. She was lying on her back in the grass soaking in the morning sunshine, smoking a stolen cigarette while she digested her purloined breakfast and buzzed on pilfered booze.

“Don’t you think it’s a little chilly for April,” Blondie objected, hugging herself and shivering in her short sleeves. It was breezy and 70º.

“Only if you’re April,” Faith quipped, grinning at the sky. She was drunk enough to be amused by this joke but sober enough to know it wasn’t actually funny. She was having trouble staying buzzed even though she’d drunk half a pint of vodka in the last hour. She’d been having that problem a lot ever since—Faith sat up abruptly and stubbed her cigarette out on the ground, suddenly wanting very much to be exactly where she was and not adrift in her own thoughts.

“April’s alright,” said Blondie agreeably. Faith regarded the girl critically for a moment and decided she had meant exactly what she’d just appeared to have said. She remained a remarkably docile creature despite having done a couple of lines of embezzled crank. It hadn’t made her any more assertive, just more cheerful about being a door mat. She had a kind of delicate, damaged innocence that made you want to either take care of her or smack her around or both. She seemed to _expect_ both. In other words, she was perfect prey for guys like Smack. On the other hand, she took orders pretty well, even if she did have a tendency to whine and to ask stupid questions. All in all she pretty much seemed like she was born to be a sidekick.

“Okay,” Faith said, “You can be April. That sounds about right. Now we just have to figure out who I am.”

April’s brow furrowed. “I know who you are,” she said, as if she were surprised that there was any doubt. “I knew within the first five minutes.”

“Well that makes one of us,” Faith said, trying to laugh it off, not finding it all that funny. The Key of the Beast or the Fist of God? Righteous Avenger or just another mass murderer?

“You really don’t know?” April asked, eyes wide.

“No I don’t fucking know!” Faith declared. “If I did I would have fucking said so.”

April looked down at the ground, cowed, chastened. “You’re the Slayer,” she explained. “It’s like your destiny and stuff. Your job is to kill vampires.”

****

“You don’t have to go yet, do you?” Xander breathed passionately against Willow’s neck. Her body lay warm and naked against him, his hands on her bare breasts. “Tell me it’s still early.” His senses were so filled up with her he could hardly breathe and yet he wanted her even more. He wanted to drown in her. He felt he had to have her one more time. Willow laughed, not her usual nervous laugh, a gentle, relaxed, ironic, sexy laugh. “What?” he asked.

Willow smiled a little regretfully. “Something about a lark,” she said. “It’s eight o’clock,” she clarified, seeing his puzzled look. “This is heaven, it really is, but if I’m not in court in in an hour, there’s going to be a warrant out for my arrest.”

“I hear what you’re saying,” Xander assured her, but then he started kissing her and feeling her up again.

“I mean it; I’ve _got_ to get going,” Willow groaned disentangling yet again from Xander’s embrace. “I don’t have time to do that _and_ take another shower. Ms. Waddle and Ms. Graves are meeting me there at ten til.”

“I can’t believe I’m not going to be able to see you for ten whole weeks,” Xander complained, “I mean, it’s like we just found each other, and I _already_ didn’t know how to live without you. I mean, my God, Willow! I’m in love with you! It still sort of amazes me.”

Willow smiled her ironic smile. “I’ll take that as a complement,” she said, pulling a court appropriate outfit from her closet. It was not quite as aggressively sexy as her last ensemble, but just as assertively grown up looking. Xander watched her dress with a strange mixture of pride and secretly self-suspected inadequacy. She was Willow and she wasn’t. She _was_ Willow, but she was also a Woman. Xander was far from sure that he was, in the strictest sense, a Man.

The phone rang. Xander picked it up. “Yeah,” he said, “she’s right here, hold on. “It’s Buffy,” he explained with his hand over the receiver.

“Finally,” Willow mumbled, somewhere between relieved and grouchy.

“I’m going to go put some more of that salve on my arms,” he announced, figuring they might want to talk about him in private.

“Did I time it right?” Buffy asked, “I’m never sure if it’s tomorrow or last night there.”

“It’s Thursday morning,” Willow explained hurriedly, “I’ve got to leave in fifteen minutes.”

“I should have called sooner,” Buffy apologized, “There’s just a lot going on over here.”

“Here too,” Willow agreed, “But I’m glad you called. How’s the whole... disciplinary thing going?”

Buffy made a miserable, plaintive little noise, “Like Jr. High only backstabbier. And like Alice in Wonderland, only weirder. I just got back from having to play croquet—I kid you not, croquet!—with Peter’s wife’s mother and all of her friends while they all talked about me literally behind my back barely quiet enough for all of us to _pretend_ I couldn’t hear them!”

“Do stuffy English people really still play croquet?” Willow asked skeptically.

“No!” Buffy declared. “No, they don’t! It’s a Watcher Women’s thing, and notice I didn’t say Women Watchers, cause that’s a whole other set of rival power structures to deal with. This bunch? Oh my God, you would not believe the things that come out of these women’s mouths! I swear to God, if I have to hear one more word about how feminists are destroying modern civilization, I’m going to stop shaving my legs! And I’m not even sure they're the worst ones! I mean, the whole Council Clan is like this secret underground country full of scary, horrible people! And the only thing worse than the ones we have to go out and schmooze is the one we have to come home to!”

Buffy lowered her voice. “I’ve never seen a human being who could drink more in a single day than Giles’ dad,” she hissed, “And that includes the time we went to beach with the Harrises and Xander had to drive home. I’m still kind of shocked he made it through last night alive. And he’s a bad influence! Giles has had no less than three drinks a day since we’ve been here and today(?) After lunch(?)” her voice was intense but barely audible. “He was _smoking_! I mean, I only left him alone for half an hour!”

“Giles, smoking?” Willow was too skeptical to commit to being shocked. “Like an actual cigarette?”

“Well, a cigar, actually, I think,” Buffy admitted, “which I _guess_ is a social thing. I mean, his friend Robson was doing it too, and he’s so big a wig the pope would have to kiss his ring back and the only one of them that seems to be really, really on our side; so, maybe he had to do it to be polite, but it’s so disgusting!”

“Well,” Willow said, sort of uncomfortably, not quite knowing what to do with the idea of Giles succumbing to peer pressure. “I’m sure with all this forced socializing at least you’re winning a few hearts and minds, right?”

“Not even!” Buffy countered, “They made me go to this meeting, or hearing or something last night, I’m not even sure, but it was like a free-for-all! All these respectable looking old men hacking and slashing at each other by trying to make _me_ say things, and I couldn’t actually tell, but from the way Robson acted at lunch, I don’t think we won that round. And today? So far, all we’ve managed to do is lose one vote that we for sure had in the bag yesterday. We got in a fight with Robson’s _son_ over werewolves of all things—specifically my _not_ killing them, which would you believe, some people are apparently against—and then Giles really sealed the deal by calling him a ‘child’ and giving him a lecture about how job one for a Watcher is being a moral guide and example to the Slayer!”

“Ouch,” said Willow doing her best to be sympathetic.

“So then, Martin(?) Robson’s son(?) He’s like, ‘You’re a disgrace and bla bla bla and by the way _I’m_ too old to go out with _your_ “wife”,’ which, okay technically if you go by the half-your-age-plus-seven rule, that’s true, but I mean, he was just amazingly rude about it and you could seriously hear the quote marks.”

Willow glanced at the clock impatiently. ‘I’ll be alright in jail the next ten weeks,’ she thought sourly, ‘how nice of you to ask. Please go on demanding my sympathy and attention for everything wrong in _your_ life, which is clearly more important than mine.’

“But enough about my problems,” Buffy said. “How are you holding up?”

“I’ll be alright,” Willow assured her guiltily, “but I’m really, really glad you asked.”

“Is Xander coming to court with you?” Buffy asked, trying to make sense of his early morning presence. “Is he being your mom again?”

Now it was Willow’s turn to make uncomfortable noises. “No, not _exactly_?” she whined. Then, as her next words formed on her tongue, she almost couldn’t help but feel better. In fact, her heart nearly skipped a beat, drunken potential in-laws notwithstanding. “He’s actually more, sort of being my boyfriend? Not sort of,” she added more definitely, maybe just a little giddy, “Buffy, Xander’s my boyfriend!” After a moment she added in an excited whisper, “We had sex! Twice… well _at least twice_ , depending on how you count. And in, you know, a year or twelve I think we’re going to get married and have babies and everything!”

“Well... wow... that’s... um, okay, well...” Buffy was dumbfounded.

“Hey,” Willow pointed out, “you’re married to _Giles_ , remember?”

“Yeah, no it’s not...” Buffy struggled to clarify her thoughts. “I’m just _surprised_ , that’s all,” she said. “I mean, I knew Cordelia was more or less AWOL, but I though you and Oz were...”

Willow sighed. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “No time to explain it all right now. I’ll see you when you get back, or when I get out I guess. Good luck with the Council thing.”

“Yeah, you too,” Buffy said, “Or... you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do,” Willow assured her.

“‘I love you,’ is what I mean,” Buffy clarified. Ten weeks was too long to be too cool to say it.

“Me too,” Willow assured her. “I’ll be alright, Buffy, I promise. Don’t worry about me.”

“Okay,” Buffy said, “take care of yourself, Wil.”

“Don’t worry,” Willow assured her again. “I will.”

“How’s she doing?” Giles asked, walking into Andrew’s kitchen just as Buffy hung up.

“A lot better than I expected, apparently,” Buffy said in an odd tone: stunned, bemused, perhaps mildly distressed.

“Would you care to elaborate?” Giles asked.

“She’s sleeping with Xander,” Buffy said. “They’re like a couple now.”

“That _boy_!” Giles muttered, shaking his head. He turned and put the kettle on with a slight but decided slam of metal on metal. “Why am I even surprised?”

Buffy didn’t say a word. He _was_ jealous, despite now having even less of a reason, but still, there were legitimate reasons to disapprove. However it played out, this had to mean that their very limited circle of friends and supporters in Sunnydale would split into at least two camps of more or less mortal enemies. Definitely not something that was going to help with fighting the Forces of Darkness or with living life in general. And what if the fairytale didn’t last a year or twelve? If Buffy wasn’t both lucky and careful, she’d soon have no friends at all at Sunnydale High.

“So how was golf?” she asked, deciding to table her transatlantic troubles. She could only navigate one social minefield at a time.

“It was golf,” he said with a sort of vocal shrug. “I don’t _think_ I made us any _new_ enemies at least. God knows I didn’t make anyone bitterly jealous of my athletic skills.”

“What time am I supposed to be there?” Buffy asked, already thinking about the next leg of the tri-schmooze-a-lon .

“Five-thirty,” Giles reminded her. “We still have a little time if you want to sit down and have a nice cup of tea before—”

“—Going to tea?” Buffy concluded dryly.

“Or perhaps not,” Giles conceded. The kettle boiled. Giles made himself a cup of tea and sat down at the table while Buffy stood purposelessly at the counter worrying about all the worriable things in her life. It was still just barely too early for her to leave for the Traverses' (even if she had had any desire whatsoever to be there) and too late to find something else to do and do it, particularly in the home of the last man on Earth without a television or even a radio.

“Where did you get this photograph?” Giles asked quietly, startling her from her thoughts. He had evidently been carrying it in his pocket all day. During the few waking minutes they’d actually gotten to spend together today, he’d been too busy debriefing her about last night to mention it. Now he was laying it on the table.

Buffy walked over and sat down, looking around as if she expected to see Andrew walking in at any moment, though he was supposed to be out winning friends and influencing people. “I went through his desk,” she admitted. “Last night—or early this morning really—while he was passed out drunk.” Giles expression soured noticeably but he didn’t say anything. “Judging from the rest of the album,” Buffy went on, “it was Helena who wrote the caption.”

“Album?” Giles asked, a look of painful hope in his eyes, “D’you mean there’s more?”

Buffy shrugged. “Nothing else related to... this, at least as far as I could tell. There were some pictures of a girl from the late forties with all the captions blacked out, but I think she was just one of Helena’s Slayers.”

A shadow seemed to pass across Giles’ face. “She only had the one,” he murmured quietly. “Yes, well,” he added in a more conversational tone, seeming to snap out of something, “nothing so interesting as this at any rate. The name, of course—” he shook his head wonderingly, “ _My_ name—is less helpful than it might have been. Even the chap at the records office had sense enough to look under ‘Simon’ right away when ‘Rupert’ didn’t turn up anything. Still,” he added philosophically, “I may have another go at the public records as soon as I get a few hours to think about anything but the Proceeding. I honestly can’t remember if I looked at anything earlier than January of ’51 under _that_ name specifically or not.”

“What about this guy?” Buffy asked, indicating the man in the picture. “Do we know who he is?”

Giles studied him a moment. “He looks... like a Watcher,” he said with a sigh. “He could be almost anyone. He’s not my father.”

“Not Andrew Giles, anyway,” Buffy half agreed.

Giles laughed a small, only mildly ironic laugh, close enough to actual mirth to wrinkle his eyes. “Ever the optimist,” he teased. “I’m afraid I’ve no such luck. Not only do I look appallingly like my father, Enrollment as a Watcher is very House specific. One must be the child or grandchild of a Watcher of that House. If my father had been a Flavian or a Gaudencio, that’s what I’d be, however they had to explain it. Unless Helena really was my mother. Which seems extremely unlikely at her age. Not to mention nothing worth making a secret of.

“He must be someone related to my mother,” Giles surmised. “For some reason, I’ve always assumed she must have been from _outside_ of the Watching Families, that there was something about her _background_ that Father or Grandmother or the Council found it unacceptable to have known, but perhaps not. Come to think of it—” Giles’ mouth snapped shut with an audible clack. “Come to think of it, he might only be someone Father sent to fetch me,” he covered (reasonably smoothly if he did say so himself) suddenly very actively engaged in the process of sipping his tea. “He might be nothing to do with her at’all.”

He had been about to suggest that if the lady’s father were very highly placed in the Council, the mere fact of her being unmarried, or inconveniently married, might have been enough to have justified the secrecy, when it had occurred to him that the man in the photograph looked rather like Patrick Bell, Kay Travers’ husband. _That_ was a thought he certainly didn’t plan on sharing, even with Buffy, especially given Robson’s comment about finding out things one didn’t want to know. Not that he _really_ thought.... Though it would certainly have gone a long way towards explaining his father’s sudden and profound rededication to the art of drinking.

“Excuse me,” he said abruptly. Putting down his tea cup, he stood and returned the photograph to his jacket pocket. Buffy looked up at him a little startled, then a little frustrated, a little offended making it clear that she knew perfectly well he had thoughts he wasn’t sharing. “It’s just occurred to me that now might be an excellent time to ransack my father’s cabinets,” he half apologized. “I haven’t done it in twenty years or so; he may have let his guard down a little.”

“Do you want me to break some locks?” Buffy offered, brightening.

Giles leaned down and kissed her on the forehead, then on the lips. “Thank you for the offer,” he said, “but I think I can still manage to pick a lock after all these years. I think matters around here are tense enough without flaunting our... investigations in my father’s face.”

Buffy looked up at the clock. “I probably should go anyway,” she admitted, “ _Elaine_ might be terribly offended if I’m late. Plus, I want to take the underground, see if I can dust another vamp or two on the way. I’m going for the all-time record.”

“Yes, well,” Giles said, releasing her with another small kiss, “Do be careful, won’t you?”

“Relax,” Buffy assured him. “I may not know what to do about anything else around here, but vampires I can handle.”

****

When the number of unfurled umbrellas assured them that it had started raining again in the late afternoon, that the risk of seeing any more direct sunlight today was very low, everyone else (everyone else that was left) put on their gloves and their Macs with the deep, roomy hoods and went up. They were all terrified but pretending not to be, muttering and grumbling to one another, declaring their intention to ‘do something about it.’

Baby didn’t go up. Baby never went up. People didn’t always come back when they went up. Mum had gone up long, long ago. Bad things were up. First there were bombs, then the Sun, and now... something else. The not coming back was getting worse again. No good came of going up. Baby went down, into the service tunnel. There were rats down there. She would hide, wait out this threat like all the others. And if she was very lucky, in some dark, lonely, isolated shaft, she might meet a Transit worker.

****

Willow didn’t have to wait long to have her case called. Engels was still angry and afraid, anxious to no longer be in the same room with her. The minute her plea had been entered, Chief Deputy Greer himself, the Sheriff’s most notorious henchman, cuffed her and loaded her up for the drive to Fondren. The way he was looking at her had made Willow keenly aware that she’d still done very little to develop her offensive (or defensive) capabilities as a witch since her losing battle with Spike more than a month earlier. “So...” Willow said, wanting to think about anything but that, even if it meant talking to Greer, “Is being a Sheriff’s deputy a good job?”

“It has its moments,” Greer replied, sneering. “I don’t think it’s really a career for someone with your... characteristics, if that’s what you’re asking. We do have some standards.”

“Oh darn,” said Willow sarcastically, “That was just what I always wanted to do with my life. Now I guess I’ll have to be a doctor or a scientist or something instead.”

“I know what you are,” Greer informed her bitterly. “And I know what you’re going to be.” That was the end of the conversation. They made the rest of the thirty-five minute drive in tense angry silence. Greer was a little older than Willow’s parents, probably about the same age as Oz’s father. Like most people in the Sheriff’s office, he was kin some way to the Wilkins family. It didn’t take someone as smart as Willow Rosenberg to figure out how he ‘knew what she was’, which gave her a pretty good idea of what he was too.

****

“Of _course_ she’s an... _effective_ Slayer. By all accounts. In her own way,” Wesley Wyndham-Pryce conceded. “That’s the only thing that makes the decision truly difficult as opposed to merely unpleasant.”

“Indeed,” said Peter in a tone he was confident his second cousin would recognize as neither noncommittal nor ironic, assuming agreement on the part of anyone he considered intelligent, as always. Of course Peter knew that Wesley’s arrogance was just a psychological defense against his deep seeded feelings of inadequacy. His father had always considered him an unsalvageable idiot and had never forgiven him for easily excelling in school only in Science and Mathematics rather than in History and Languages, in which only struggle and hard work allowed him to maintain impressively high marks. But that didn’t make it a lot more pleasant to deal with him. Especially given that, at age twenty-six, he still hadn’t seemed to figure out that there comes a point in life when it really isn’t about the marks you’ve gotten anymore.

“Yes,” Wesley continued exactly as if he’d met with enthusiastic agreement, “well, I’d certainly never suggest that rank sentimentality had anything to do with your advocacy on her behalf, though you are her Watcher. I know you are only promoting what you feel is best for the Council as a whole... and I can certainly see the point of view from which it would _appear_ that ‘mercy’ as it were might be the wiser course in this particular instance...”

“Look,” said Peter, his patience wearing a little thin, “all I need you to do is gather up the young Watchers and Watcher Candidates in your House and encourage them to come listen to what I have to say this evening with an open mind. Can you do that?” Wesley looked noncommittal. Peter figured he’d probably get an extra year or so in Hell for what he said next, but he said it anyway. “Of course, I would understand if you don’t feel your father would approve of your taking a leadership role in this. I wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble. If there’s someone _else_ in your House that you think I’d be better off talking to....”

****

“What’s the suspect’s name?” Wallace asked grimly.

“Faith,” Giles told him, not bothering to quibble over the label the old cop placed on the girl. “Faith Madden according to her school records , but her birth certificate says Ericson and Massachusetts Children’s Services has her variously as Lehane, Madden and Kirkland. From what Robson’s sources have been able to find out, the Boston Police have her listed as a missing person, but the Massachusetts State Police list her as a ‘person of interest’ in a string of murders there as do the FBI and others for several more across the country.

“Various counties in Arizona have issued arrest warrants for murder, robbery and carjacking, but there’s damn little information about what the murders actually entailed. I don’t know whether there’d be any useful information in the papers over there or not. The first thing to look for would be an indication of the use of superhuman strength, which might tell us at least whether or not she is the Slayer. ”

“And if so?” Wallace asked.

“Well,” said Giles grimly, “that would mean, among other things, that short of killing her, which would be no mean feat in itself, there’s damn little any law enforcement agency could do about her even if they caught her. You certainly shouldn’t try to confront her yourself under any circumstances.”

“Given,” Wallace acknowledged. He had not in any sense forgotten the ease with which his little great-granddaughter had been able to pick him up and move him around. “But my question is what is it exactly, that _you_ plan to do with her if I can find her?”

“If she is the Slayer, or even a Potential Slayer, we must help her,” Giles said.

“Help her do what, exactly?” Wallace persisted skeptically.

“Learn to leave humans in peace and kill vampires,” Giles said crisply. It was half the truth and a much easier thing to tell Wallace than that she was in danger of being murdered by elements of the Watchers’ Council, that it was for that very reason that he and not an agent of the Council was being asked to perform this task.

“And if she’s not?” Wallace asked.

“Turn her in to the authorities, I suppose,” Giles said, seeming puzzled by the question. Wallace’s mouth twisted into an ironic grin. The more things changed the more they stayed the same. It could have been 1946.

The Englishman obviously hadn’t given a single thought to the fact that this girl might be literally facing a death sentence, and why should he? Death to all murders in the name of justice! But murderer was sort of an arbitrary label in a time of war. Even a long, slow, quiet war. _Especially_ a long, slow, quiet war. And as always, the dread label was applied more easily to the powerless, to those without a set of skills and abilities particularly useful against the greater enemy. Or to those who didn’t use their skills as directed.

Some kid with a barrel of whiskey and a fist full of Dexedrine in his guts goes and pops off a few rounds in some pretty Fraulein who has a different view of the value of their transactions, he has to be hanged lest the Free World fall. Some sorry son of a Burgermeister with a fat stack of scientific credentials thinks vivisection makes a relaxing hobby; he gets a brand new start in middle America. As long as he’s cooperative.

Why should these self-righteous, self-appointed guardians of Mankind be any different than the government or the Soviets or anyone else who was waging a war? Why should they give a shit about the life of a sixteen-year-old girl if there was no chance of turning her out as a warrior for the Cause? And why should they give a shit about the people she had killed if there was?

“Look,” Giles said after much too long a silence, grudgingly deciding to come clean about some small part of what he was really up to. “It is vitally important at this exact moment in history to prove the proposition that a line of Slayers can and does descend and proceed from Kendra who’s calling has proceeded already from Buffy’s death last year and that it is not necessary to the calling of any subsequent Slayer that Buffy herself should be physically dead at any particular point in the future. I believe there are elements within the Council who, having proof on that point, would keep it to themselves for their own reasons, and that could deprive us of a very valuable tool in these extremely delicate negotiations.”

“Are you saying these Council bastards are set on replacing Buffy even if they have to kill her to do it?” Wallace asked grimly.

“No, it isn’t that at all,” Giles explained. “We Watchers deal with... fate... with destiny, with prophesy the way other people deal with weather forecasts and sales projections. It tends to make one a bit, well, fatalistic. Right now there are very good reasons to believe that another Slayer—indeed perhaps a whole host of Slayers—may be called in the very near future. This seems to be having the unfortunate effect of convincing a lot of Watchers that Buffy may not be long for this world in any case, which I believe is affecting their ability to take her needs into account.”

Wallace took a deep breath. “I’ll find your girl,” assured Giles evenly. “You just make sure you take care of mine. I don’t believe in fate. I believe in personal responsibility. And if Buffy dies one second before I do, I’m holding you personally responsible.”


	16. Ex Machina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Startling events lead to unexpected changes in circumstances... almost as if something outside of the universe in which Buffy and her friends live were directing their lives towards outcomes that suited its own fancy. ;-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part III: Where the Heart Is.

There was an actual butler who opened the door at the Traverses' posh residence in Mayfair. Quentin had made a point of not being home of course. He was still too cool to be seen with Buffy. She was greeted in the parlor (which the butler actually  _called_ the parlor) first by Elaine (who was technically the one who had invited her) and only then by Gale, the lady of the house, who gave her decidedly less than half a handshake with an expression of grim, politely suffering distaste. Next came Laura Sterling and her daughter Penny Hunt, who was a couple of years older than Buffy. They greeted her with perfect etiquette and every outward visible sign of warmth and friendliness owing to the combined facts that they were her actual enemies and that their mutual ‘friend’ and hostess outranked them. Finally, she got exactly half a handshake each and authentically tepid greetings from Katherine Wyndham-Pryce and Jane Crowne (wife of Julian and daughter of Milton, respectively) whom she believed to have been invited only because they might otherwise have a right to take offense that Laura and Penny had been. Everyone sat down to tea with tiny pastries and finger sandwiches and pretended they weren’t waiting for Peter Travers to come home with Virgil Gaudencio ‘coincidentally’ in tow and join them. It was all so eighth grade you could die.

The small talk was extremely small and not a little awkward. No one even tacitly acknowledged that there was such a thing as the Slayer, let alone that she was among there company never mind anything about the Proceeding. “How are you finding our fair island?” Laura asked at one point. “I suppose it’s terribly drab coming from sunny California?”

“Oh... um no not at all,” Buffy lied politely. Everyone remained focused on her as though she were expected to have more to say on the riveting subject of Comparative Climatology. “Anyway,” she tried to joke “today was practically sunny after yesterday. I mean, it only rained like three times, and it hardly snowed at all.”

“Yes, well,” said Gale, seeming slightly but genuinely offended. “It’s a pity the whole world can’t always be made to suit, isn’t it? We do sometimes have to take it as it comes, you know.” There was a smattering of nervous laughter and little affected coughs.

“Are there any more of those little fruit pie pastry thingies?” Buffy asked, doing her very best friendly, nonthreatening new-girl-in-school-and-totally-willing-to-click-with-your-clique-and-be-led-by-your-leaders smile. Everyone looked at her just about exactly as if she had claimed her aunt was done in for a new straw hat or possibly the hat pin.

About seven o’clock, the ladies started going home or wherever it was they planned on having Dinner. By seven-thirty, Buffy was alone with the two Travers women. Besides the fact that this was unpleasant in itself, she was close to deciding that Virgil Gaudencio wasn’t willing to accidentally run into her after all. She guessed he’d heard enough last night. Buffy wished she knew whether he’d heard enough to know he wasn’t going to show her any mercy or just enough to know he didn’t need to make her beg for it. His not being here seemed like a very bad sign, but last night he had practically seemed on the verge of standing up and declaring himself her champion. Maybe she was losing her touch Buffy thought, too long out of the people reading game. She should have brought Cordelia along, she mused sardonically, to supplement her rusty social politics skills. Except that Cordelia was more or less her enemy again, Buffy recalled gloomily, or about to be, because right or wrong, Buffy certainly wasn’t going to side with her over Willow and Xander.

The doorbell rang. The hairs on the back of Buffy’s neck stood up. She stood abruptly leaving the two other women staring apprehensively after her as she walked out into the foyer and stopped the butler in the act of going to answer the door. The poor man nearly fainted when Buffy pulled aside the curtain on the front window to reveal two tall, elegantly dressed females in wide brimmed hats and long white gloves, holding Laura Sterling and Penny Hunt each in a firm headlock that was ready to become a choke hold. The two were not identical, but they looked a lot alike. They were surrounded by a mob of dozens of what appeared to be men, women and children in deeply hooded raincoats who were similarly holding the other tea guests hostage along with Peter and Virgil. Both men and most of the women were beaten and bloodied as though they’d put up a pretty good fight. The old man, in fact, was still struggling and sputtering, though the rest were unconscious, defeated or otherwise limp.

“Tell Gale to gather whatever weapons she has in the house and put them in the parlor,” Buffy instructed the horrified servant. “But bring them in through the dining room so it’s not obvious. Then go hide somewhere, all of you. I’ll handle this.”

As soon as he was out of easy inviting range. Buffy opened the door and leaned against it casually, careful not to cross the threshold. You hardly ever get a chance to actually play out the ‘what I should have dones’ that come to mind for days after a fiasco like the one Buffy had live through twenty-four hours before her wedding. Buffy was finding that they looked a lot better when they stayed retrospective. The being outnumbered factor was considerably worse than before and the having no choice but to try only a little less so. If she did nothing or the wrong thing, at least six lives would be lost, the flesh and blood, incidentally, of those upon whom her hopes of maintaining peace with the Council depended. Much more than a pound, cut way too close to the heart.

In fact, if she screwed up badly enough, Buffy realized, the death toll could easily go as high as fourteen, including Peter’s children and their nanny, who were in the house somewhere. Including Buffy, for that matter, which at least would have been one solution to the problem that currently had the Council tied in knots. Realizing that, she instantly thought of another solution, one that vampires, being vampires, might reasonably expect her to welcome. “Hey there,” she said, smiling. “If it isn’t the enemies of my enemies.” Virgil’s grunting and struggling briefly increased. Laura Sterling lifted her head, looking first startled then contemptuous but did nothing to invite further choking into submission.

“Let’s test that theory!” one evil sister suggested brightly, positioning Penny’s limp body as if to twist her head off like a bottle cap. When Buffy heard the wet crack of bone breaking inside living flesh and Laura’s cry of anguish and pain, it took her a second to realize that it was the mother’s arm rather than the daughter’s neck that was broken. By that time, she was in a fighting stance, stake in hand, though thankfully she had stopped short of leaping through the open doorway. The lady vampires laughed like two urbane women sharing a sophisticated joke. Buffy was shocked to realize that their laughter and the shape of their laughing faces had the unnervingly Gilesy quality of Watchers everywhere. Their rabble of serfs laughed along with them, remaining a generic mass of pseudo-humanity.

Buffy backed up about a foot. There was no playing it cool at this point. She tried a new tactic. “Two promises,” she said. “One: whoever kills any of these six humans will die here tonight. Two: if you hand them over the threshold first, one vampire per hostage can come in.”

A thrill of excitement went through the crowd. For a moment the two ladies seemed so giddy with longing and assurance, like champions nearing certain triumph, that Buffy had the sick feeling they knew something she didn’t. But disappointment soon crept upon them. “She hasn’t the authority,” one sister complained. The other nodded grimly.

“No,” said Gale coming up behind Buffy carrying a little contraption that looked like the bastard child of a machine pistol and a cross bow, “She hasn’t.”

When Gale refused to give the conditional invitation, at first Buffy thought she didn’t understand her plan, but that wasn’t the case. “I wouldn’t anyhow,” Gale explained, “but those two were born in this house, weren’t you my dears?” The undead ladies laughed again. “They are Susannah and Wilhelmina Travers, the sisters of Margaret Travers Font and Charles Travers the Elder,” she explained to Buffy as though that should have allowed her to place them in the whole genealogical scheme quite precisely. “If ever once we let them in, they can invite in as many more as they like. It’d be there house again.”

“It is our house you Hippolyton whore!” Susannah declared vehemently, “And why is that half bleached tart wearing _my_ ring, that’s what I’d like to know?”

“Give me back my son or I’ll kill you both,” Gale replied quite calmly.

“If she fires a shot, kill them all,” Wilhelmina instructed the mob just as calmly.

Gale lowered her weapon exactly as if she were conceding that it could be of no use at the moment. Suddenly a flaming bolt flew from it, beneath Susannah’s arm, close enough to set her sleeve aflame and straight at the face of the tall male vampire actually holding Peter. Contrary to instructions, he dropped his hostage and fled. The bolt set a nearby urchinoid ablaze, just as the second bolt was loosed upon the crowd. Flaming vampires clutched desperately at their brethren, who fled from them in terror. Susannah was dancing and burning to nothingness, still holding tight to a now actively resisting Laura Sterling.

Wilhelmina recovered from her shock more quickly than Buffy. Throwing Penny into the Slayer’s arms she turned and fled. Buffy shoved the girl through the doorway, just as Gale dropped her weapon to beat the flames out of Laura’s clothes. The Slayer picked up the whatchamacallit and sent bolts flying into the backs of the scattering throng, wincing as they tread upon dropped hostages in their hurry to escape. It took her three or four shots to get the igniting mechanism to work, but two of those cold bolts found their way into the hearts of vampires and she burned three more before they were all out of range. Altogether, a dozen vampires had been killed. The other Ms. Travers, unfortunately, was not among the dusted.

Buffy tossed the weapon back to Gale with instructions to cover her as she gathered the unconscious, semiconscious, and disoriented victims and led or carried them into the house. By the time they reached Peter, he had staggered to his feet, then knelt to check on Jane Crowne, who had fallen next to him. She wasn’t moving. The sounds of an approaching ambulance could be heard probably thanks to Elaine. As Buffy shouldered the weight of a battered, cold-cocked but still breathing Virgil Gaudencio over the threshold, Peter declared with sober regret, “Jane’s dead. Broken neck.”

One of the vamps had actually followed orders before breaking ranks. “Mother, put that up before the police arrive,” Peter added, “and go tell Elaine and the children everything is alright. I’m going to call Hopkins at the Coroner’s and tell him what to find. Leave the body out here,” he instructed Buffy, “otherwise they’ll take it as an excuse to ransack the place.” It took her several seconds to realize he meant the cops rather than the vampires. Somewhere between being horrified by Jane’s violent death and Laura’s terrible injuries and worried what all of this would mean to the Proceeding and her family’s future, Buffy found a moment to think, ‘Oh, great(!) Another murder investigation.’

****

“How many have we lost?” the General asked soberly.

“Nine, including Marcus,” Orlando answered. “The ‘Council’ has lost seven, by the way, but they haven’t given up by any means. That villain Weatherby and his associates removed our fallen from the battlefield before the heathen temporal authorities had the chance to dissect them, at least, but I doubt very much if the heretics are giving them a decent Christian burial.”

“Is the girl still in contact with her father?” the General asked, not wanting to be distracted by unpleasant facts that nothing could be done about.

“She was, I believe,” Orlando said grimly. “But Weatherby has seen to that as well. He’s framed him for the murder of a policeman, which suggests to me that he has some other plan for making contact with her. Perhaps he already knows where she’s hiding, or thinks he does.”

“Perhaps,” said the General skeptically, not wasting a second even trying to be shocked by the fact that an agent of the Watcher’s Council would murder someone just to use him as a prop, “or perhaps he expects to intercept her coming to the doctor’s rescue.”

“I don’t think Mr. Weatherby would rely on any strategy that required a human being to behave decently,” the younger knight objected.

“It’s seldom a good bet,” the General admitted, agreeing with something a little to the left of what Orlando had actually meant to say. “Still, whatever else she may be, she is a Slayer. Heroism is in their nature, even if it is persistently misdirected. Either way, we should be ready to act swiftly and secretly. Marcus was a fine soldier, but his tactics were incorrect. If the Beast has not yet learned the identity of the Key, She soon will if we don’t display a bit more restraint and cunning. The Vessel will be a young man by now or the Key would not have been given form.”

“Yet, according to the signs,” Orlando pointed out, “the hour of alignment is still years away. What can the monks have been thinking?”

“It is divine providence that it should be so,” explained the General confidently. “In human form, the Key is vulnerable at last so that the will of God may be done. In His grace and wisdom, He has given us plenty of time to act.”

 ****

When Faith got back to the motel, she found four-hundred dollars under the mattress, exactly where she expected it to be. April pulled the bag of crank from her pants pocket and held it out to her. But Faith was no longer interested in re-baiting the trap for a bigger catch. “Keep it,” she said, “as a gift. Pack light,” she added, tossing April her shoulder bag, “We’re going to California.”

“California? Why?” April asked nervously.

“I want to see that town you told me about,” Faith explained. “The one with all the vampires.”

“You _want_ to go to where the vampires are?” April asked. “Now? Are you sure you don't want to take some time to get ready first? I mean, like learn more about them or something?”

“Like how?” Faith challenged, “Read up on them in the Weekly World News?” April shrugged and frowned. “Relax,” Faith chided her slightly, “I mean you said it yourself, that's what I was born to do right? Kill vampires? I'm 'The Chosen One' right?  It's frickin' fate.  What am I gonna do?  Sit on my ass and wait to get older.  Fuck that shit.  Life ain't for getting ready, it's for getting started already.”

****

“Wait, I’m going to do what while I’m in here?” Willow asked, mildly horrified.

“Graduate,” Mr. Hetherington, the Educational Counselor, repeated. The difference in title was evidently in acknowledgment of the fact that in JDC school Counselors didn’t so much ‘guide’ students as tell them exactly what to do. “Luckily, you got here just in time for finals. We give them as soon as they’re written, which gives us time to get in three semesters of Summer school instead of two. We go six days a week for five weeks instead of vice versa.

“Most of our students are behind in something, so we try to get everyone caught up while they’re here. But you don’t have that problem. Assuming you pass everything, you’ll be starting the new term on Monday with 22 credits. It’s still the ’97-98 academic year until July 1, when we _finally_ go to seven classes a day like the rest of the state, so you only _need_ 22 credits to graduate, but you do still have to have one more PE/Health credit and one credit of either art or music to meet your requirements. For most people in this situation it’s Math or English, but those AP literature and creative writing classes you took last summer can fill the requirement for Twelfth Grade English, and you have more Math credits than I really know what to do with.”

Willow was still stunned, unsure what to think or say. It wasn’t that she necessarily _wanted_ to spend another years at Sunnydale High, especially since Xander had left school. And very especially since Cordelia hadn’t. But she liked to be _prepared_ for major changes in her life, or at least to know they were coming. She liked to make plans, not that what she liked had seemed to matter much lately. She hated the feeling that, yet again, life was simply _happening_ to her without her having any say-so. Despite all the wonderful sleep she’d gotten that morning, the whole idea of rushing to graduation in the next ten weeks made Willow feel very, very tired.

“Our summer instructional day here is 6:30a.m. to 7:30p.m.,” Hetherington was saying, “including an hour for breaks and lunch. Dinner is at 8:00 and lights out at 9:00. We find that keeps everyone too busy to get into too much trouble.

“We have to put you in four classes until you do graduate. That’s policy. Now, I’ve reviewed your records, per our policy of working with the individual student’s particular strengths and weaknesses, so... I’m placing you in Fitness Yoga and A.P. Public Health instead of the regular Twelfth Grade P.E./Health module. And for the art requirements... Computer Aided Drafting and Graphic Design. That puts you spending the first half of every day in the computer room, so we don’t have to try to get you from one end of the building to the other during that short morning break, that works better for us anyway.

“As for finals...” Hetherington looked at the big clock on the wall behind Willow. “It’s just coming up on lunchtime, so you should be able to do the English and the History before dinner. The P.E. they’re just going to call an ‘A’. You can do the A.P. Calc in the morning, and that will give you a day and a half to complete your project final for that two unit Advanced Computer Science Tutorial. What with the uh... personnel problems at Sunnydale, we’re having the computer science teacher from Fondren send something over.”

Still sort of numb, Willow nodded to show she understood, though there had not been a request for her to agree to anything. But then the strength of her fear gave her the courage to speak up. “But!” she tried to explain, more alarmed the more she thought about it, verging on panic. “I’m not ready to graduate!” She thought she might hyperventilate. “I haven’t applied to colleges!” She thought she might pass out. “I haven’t taken the SATs! And... and…”

“For the love of Mike, calm down!” Hetherington commanded. He saw a lot of emotionally neglected kids who lived in a perpetual state of insecurity, waiting for the signal to panic but this girl was one of the worst he’d seen lately. Further proof that there was a difference between a “good” home and a well-to-do one. He shook his head, trying not to show his grim amusement. _What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?_ He truly wondered.

Of course, his files told him that too, or purported to. But he couldn’t quite figure such a clean, sharp kid, _especially_ one from a well-to-do even if not so good home, pulling actual time on blessed misdemeanor, even if it was a plea down from a felony. It was still a _juvenile_ adjudication for pity’s sake. Then again, it was a Sunnydale case. Everything over there was always a big damned mystery. ‘Busy, busy, busy.’

“You can take the June SATs,” he pointed out, “which it’s not quite too late to sign up for yet. We transport to UC Sunnydale for that, as long as you don’t get yourself on disciplinary lockdown. I admit that’s cutting it close on late admission for most schools, but even if you have to apply for the Spring semester, it’s still six months sooner than you thought. I’ll see what I can do about getting you the registration form today, but it may be tomorrow.”

Willow nodded, starting to feel a little better. If nothing else, learning to draw better on the computer, especially schematics, seemed like it could be both fun and useful. It also meant she would have access to a computer about six hours a day, which surely held other fun (not to mention useful) possibilities. In her mind she was already emailing Xander.

He’d had to create an email address for Miss Calendar’s class and, even though it was through the school, Willow was betting that Snyder had no clue how to monitor it or to take it down. She just hoped Xander remembered that he had it and that he could check it from the computers at her house. Considering that she herself had only just thought of the possibility, Willow doubted that Xander ever would think of it on his own, actually. But then, Ms. Waddle had promised to visit. Willow was sure she could send word through her.

Meanwhile, maybe she would use the time she had on her hands to do a little research. She could always use a glamour if she needed to hide what was up on her screen. As long as she wasn’t going anywhere for a while, this might be the perfect time to find out more about how and why she had gotten to be who and where she was. More about the Levines. More about the Mayor. More about Sheila. More about Sunnydale. More about herself. More about magic, and please God, if there was a way, more about love.

****

“Is now a good time to discuss your options?” Dr. Kim asked in his trying-hard-to-sound-compassionate-but-really-wondering-what’s-for-lunch voice.

“I know my options,” Cordelia said bitterly. “They haven’t invented any new ones in the last nine months.” This wasn’t supposed to happen again. She’d taken her pill every day, not _almost_ , EVERY DAY, for nearly eight months. Even the fourth-week pills that don’t do anything but you’re supposed to take them anyway so you don’t get out of the habit.

“Do you know what you want to do?” he asked patient-but-really-impatiently.

If she’d wanted what she knew to do, she’d have done it a month ago. “He’ll kill him,” she whispered, shaking her head.

Dr. Kim pretended to assume she was using hyperbole. “By my measurements you’re at ten weeks today,” he warned. “So you have a little time to think about it, but don’t take too long. It’ll take us a week or two to get you in from the time you make the appointment and if you get past 18 weeks, you’ll have to go somewhere else.”

“Can I get the appointment scheduled today?” she asked.

“If that’s what you want,” he said.

“I don’t _want_ any of this,” Cordelia said angrily. Please God, I don’t want this.

“Well it’s your choice,” the doctor said, a little more impatiently patiently.

There’s a place in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean where the sea gets so calm sailing ships used to get stuck there for days. This place is called the ‘horse latitudes’ although Webster’s fattest dictionary claims not to know why.

“Yeah,” Cordelia said. “It’s my choice.”

****

“I’m telling you, I can’t do it,” Xander pleaded. “I have classes. It’s a condition of my probation. If I flunk out, I’ll get thrown in jail, which I will anyway if I stay out after curfew.”

“Look,” Mr. Garth said bluntly, “Your probation is not my problem. There’s no one here but me. You’re the last one on my list. If you don’t come in, I’m going to have to either close the store all weekend or my wife is going to be celebrating our anniversary without me. If either of those things happens, you can forget about this job or any other job that calls me for a reference.”

Xander put his hand over the receiver and cursed fluently but quietly. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said, getting back on the line.

“Ten,” said Mr. Garth.

“Yes, Sir. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Who was that?” Jessica asked suspiciously, walking into the room as he hung up the phone.

“Oh, um, that was my boss,” Xander said, working the truth into his lie. “Class was canceled today because the teachers all had to go to some kind of meeting or something, so I called in to see if I could work an extra day. Which, I am and I may be late, actually, I’m going to work straight through to closing.”

“What about your curfew?” she asked.

“Oh, um, well, I talked to my probation officer,” Xander bluffed from the hip, “and he said that’s since I’ve been doing so well on my probation, like with the getting my community service done so quick and staying out of trouble and everything, that I can work after curfew as long as I go straight there and come straight back.”

Jessica pursed her lips but said nothing. Xander kissed her on the forehead and left. She sighed and shook her head. She didn’t actually _know_ that he wasn’t telling the truth. And if she didn’t actually know, she didn’t actually _have_ to say anything. And anyway, it wasn’t like he was going out and raising hell. He was working. He needed to be working. When he’d given up his right to attend Sunnydale High by refusing to fight the expulsion he’d lost the ten square meals a week from the USDA that went with it. They needed the money.

****

“Tell me again how this happened?” Detective Spratling demanded brusquely

“She fell,” Buffy said flatly. She’d been warned to elaborate as little as possible.

“Backwards or forwards?” he asked neither belief nor disbelief evident in his tone.

“I don’t know,” Buffy said, “just, down the steps. It happened fast, and we were all focused on Laura.”

“The Reverend Dr. Sterling?”

“Yes.”

“Whom she’d just set on fire?

“Yes.”

“So, what you’re telling me is that a respectable twenty-six-year-old Midlands school teacher got up from having tea with half a dozen ladies of her acquaintance, choked one of them unconscious, punched two others in the face, was stopped at the door by a distinguished University Chair in his seventies, beat the living daylights out of him, tackled the gentleman half-again her size who came to his aid, then finally broke the arm of an equally respectable scholar of theology before setting her aflame and falling three feet to her death?”

“Yes,” Buffy answered forcing herself to meet his steady gaze for a moment before dropping her eyes. It had sounded only a little less ridiculous when Peter had explained it to her. Truthfully, she wasn’t as worried about how it sounded to this guy as how it would sound to Milton Crowne. Peter had said he would understand. So had Gale. So had Virgil Gaudencio. There hadn’t been much time to argue about it.

“Rubbish!” the detective challenged, giving up his pose of neutrality.

“Am I free to leave now?” Buffy asked. These were the exact words Hal had taught her to use in this situation. She wasn’t sure how they would apply on this side of the Atlantic.

“Do you expect to be accused of something” he asked, seeming puzzled.

“I’ve answered your questions,” Buffy said. “Now I want to know if I am free to leave.”

“Did Dr. Sterling push Ms. Crowne down the steps?”

“No,” Buffy answered, not for the first time.

“If someone, anyone, caused Ms. Crowne’s death in the process of trying to protect Dr. Sterling or Professor Gaudencio or anyone else from being attacked, if indeed as you say, she was the sole aggressor,” the detective argued earnestly, “that person would be unlikely, ultimately to face any criminal charges.”

She picked up her coat as if to go. “Is my husband here yet?” she asked.

“What is it that you don’t want to tell me?” Detective Spratling persisted.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” Buffy said. “Either arrest me or I’m leaving.”

“Sit!” Spratling snapped in frustration as Buffy headed for the door. There was an immediate knock from without. He answered it and conversed with his apparent superior in angry whispers. “Go,” he said, bitterly at last.

Giles met her in the hallway, a grim faced solicitor at his side, looking anxious and relieved at the same time. “Are you alright?” he asked. She nodded and leaned against him in a way that more or less compelled him to put his arms around her.

“My apologies, Mr. Deputy Minister, the superior of Spratling’s superior was gushing to a tall, Watcherly gentleman in his late sixties who, from the defensive way Katherine was standing at his shoulder, had to be Julian Wyndham-Pryce, though Buffy could not have identified his face independently of those circumstance. She had never really seen it last night in his hooded robes. “I’m quite certain you’re right and I thank you for your patience. Now we’ve got everyone’s statements, I'm sure we can sort out the details of this Tragic Accident.”

“Yes, quite sure,” Julian agreed crisply, his voice confirmingly familiar. “Peter,” he commended the younger man, who had just emerged from his own interview room and was making his way towards Buffy, “ride with me; I want to have a word with you.”

“Certainly,” Peter agreed with a half-apologetic nod to his Slayer, turning to go with Julian.

“Let’s get out of here as well,” suggested the solicitor, who turned out to be David Morrison, one of Giles’ drinking buddies from last night.

“So... this Julian guy’s not just a wig in Watchersville then?” Buffy surmised as they walked to Morrison’s car.

“No,” Giles acknowledged, “He’s the Deputy Foreign Minister for Trade and Agricultural Relations. I wouldn’t have even bothered with a solicitor but he’s so displeased with us right now that it took some time for him to actually listen to our messages and decide to do something about the situation. It ought to be more or less sorted out now, though I think Detective Spratling was rather put out to be circumvented, so he may be keeping an eye on us for a few days. Did it seem that way to you, Morrison?”

The lawyer shrugged as he got behind the wheel. “He _knows_ something is happening here...” he said meaningfully, grinning, “I think that’s all it was really.” It was like the passport, Buffy realized. Strings being pulled above his head. Probably the same strings in fact, since she was pretty sure the Foreign Ministry was the same thing as the State Department. “Still, probably best not to be seen walking the streets with... erm the tools of your trade for a night or two,” Morrison advised Buffy.

“What’ll be different in a night or two?” she asked.

“Our man in the coroner’s office is going to ‘find’ a tumor as big as your fist in Jane Crowne’s head,” Giles explained matter-of-factly, “thus exonerating her of all blame without creating a need to blame anyone else.”

“But what are we going to _do_ about this?” Buffy worried aloud. “I mean, it doesn’t exactly seem right to be throwing a party tomorrow. Especially since half the guests are related to her, and we are too, aren’t we?” Giles nodded. “Should we cancel it?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Giles admitted. He brooded silently for a while as they drove. All things being equal of course, it would be much ruder to cancel a large formal function on less than twenty-four hours’ notice than to belatedly celebrate a wedding despite the recent violent death of a distant cousin.

But all things were not Equal. Jane was Milton’s only child. Milton Crowne was an open and unabashed homosexual, the term he preferred. He cheerfully admitted to being both queer and gay as well, but pointed out that those were entirely separate qualities. He had married relatively late in life by Watcher’s standards to an even older and equally forthright lesbian friend and colleague with the mutually stated objective of producing two children, but only one had been forthcoming. Jane’s mother had died when she was seven and Milton had declared himself happy with what he had and done with the whole business.

Now Milton’s nearest ‘heir’ was the son of a second cousin. An open battle for succession between the Crownes and the Sterlings was inevitable and everything to do with that would affect everything to do with the shifting tectonics of the Council that was to decide Giles’ fate and thereby to some extent Buffy’s and everyone else’s. He didn’t want to open himself up to the slightest basis for accusation that he had been insensitive towards Milton in his time of bereavement. But at least as unpleasantly, he could well imagine being accused of indulging in calculated mourning for the purpose of currying favor and gaining votes.

Of course, ordinarily, anyone ought to be able to understand that a young bride might not feel like celebrating the day after witnessing a chilling scene of mortal violence. But considering what those judging his actions were likely to think they knew about his bride, he doubted they would credit her with so much sensitivity. It didn’t help that the Gileses and the Traverses were more closely related to the Crownes while the Robsons and Wyndham-Pryces were, for the most part, more closely related to the Sterlings, Laura’s claim to the Weregelder Seat notwithstanding.

“Of course you know my opinion,” Morrison noted, parking in the slot which belonged to the flat, but which Andrew didn’t happen to have a car for. “It seems a graceful way out of an ill-advised endeavor.”

“Let’s talk about it upstairs,” Buffy suggested. “I’ve got to get something to eat. My stomach is not happy.”

The men nodded. At any rate it didn’t bear discussing in a parking garage.

****

From what little was said in the newspapers, other than shock and outrage in the community, etc. etc., not much could be gleaned about the murders that may or may not have been committed by Faith Ericson. But Wallace wasn’t limited to reading what was in the papers. He knew people. He made a few phone calls. Within hours he was certain that she was both a Slayer and a slayer. He was also pretty sure she’d never left Arizona. When he learned about the murder of Detective Zack Mallet, he was certain of that as well. He was also certain that he was not the only person outside of the law who was looking for her and that, in all likelihood, Mr. Giles had already known that. There was some rival within his own organization whom he was trying to beat to the punch. Someone who had a substantial head start. Someone who played very, very rough and was used to getting away with it. If there was one thing B.F. Wallace couldn’t stand, it was an arrogant predator.

****

Liam watched the house for hours. It wasn’t the first day he had spent that way. Buffy wasn’t there of course, but watching Joyce and Brian come and go was marginally more satisfying than staring into the black, empty windows of Rupert’s condo. Here at least were signs of life if not quite the life he was looking for. It was a little more than something to do to pass the time, but not much.

Liam was not discouraged. He waited. He planned. He strategized. His business was urgent only in its great personal importance to him, not particularly time sensitive, at least no more so than the plans of any mortal man. Liam knew how to be patient.

He supposed a man in his position ought to feel guilty, ought to bow out gracefully, ought to be noble and heroic like Humphrey Bogart, ought to be content to let Buffy love her husband and fight her war and live her life. But getting his life back, however it had happened, was a gift, one he just couldn’t through away.

Besides, Bogy didn’t have to live with his noble and heroic decision past the end credits. Liam had endured his share of suffering and sacrifice. He was done with that. It was someone else’s turn to be the sacrifice, some else’s turn to be an angel. There was real hope and joy in his heart for the first time in just about as long as he could remember, and no one to punish him for it. And besides any of that, Viktor Lazlo wasn’t secretly a Nazi.

Liam smiled. He’d always liked Cary Grant better anyway. His smile broadened as he thought of the battle that lay ahead of him and of its sweet rewards. A new plan was forming in his mind. A small one. He had spied a more immediate use for a piece of ammunition, he’d had it in mind to save for a later stage of this conflict. A bit of groundwork he could be laying while he waited for Buffy to return.

Liam was delighted with his stratagem, ‘fair’ though it was only in the sense that ‘all’s fair…’ There was a sort of poetic justice to it. Liam had information that Rupert would never have dreamed that he could know and from a source for which the bastard had only himself to blame. Relishing the thought of how low that inveterate liar could be brought by the simple, well-timed revelation of the truth, Liam found himself humming, then singing quietly to himself, “♫…why it’s almost like being in love!♪”

****

“Rupert, you’ve got to cancel this ridiculous reception,” Morrison continued to plead in the lift. “It’s frivolous and in bad taste, especially now. In fact, if I were Primary right now, I’d have my Slayer out hunting the thing that killed Milton Crowne’s daughter.”

Buffy looked at Giles, but said nothing. “I’m not Primary,” Giles pointed out. “I hope we’ll be seeing Peter later tonight,” he added grimly. “I’d like to know exactly what he and Julian are talking about. I’d like to know whether… he’s made any progress on some other… business he was to be looking into.” Morrison gave Giles a mildly disapproving look. He wished he’d drop his transparent charade that he wasn’t maneuvering behind the scenes to influence the Proceeding. In his position, he’d be a damn fool to do anything else.

The contents of Andrew Giles’ refrigerator included nothing fresher or more appetizing than the leftovers of last night’s dinner. At the sight and smell of them, Buffy ran to the washroom to vomit. “How far along is she?” Morrison asked.

“About eight weeks,” Giles said, scanning the cupboard, looking for a better option, “except that in America they add two more just for spite.”

“I’d have said three months or more,” Morrison mused, “except for the fact that she’s still getting sick.”

“Your point being?” Giles asked. He’d actually noticed that Buffy looked a little more pregnant than the books said she should at this stage, and a damned site more than Deirdre ever had, even at nearly four months with only Englishmen counting. But the books also said that variation was just about the only constant feature of pregnancy.

“I was just thinking, lucky sort of fellow that you are, it could be twins,” said Morrison, darkly amused.

“Don’t even joke about that,” Giles warned half seriously. “Actually she’s already had a scan, so there is little chance of that,” he noted, smiling a little.

“I suppose your father will be in bed at this hour,” Morrison guessed as he watched Giles brew up some sort of hot cereal.

“If he’s even home,” Buffy chimed in, a little on the snarky side, coming back into the room. “In which case, he’s probably passed out by now.”

“Well, at his time of life...” Morrison started.

“His ‘time-of-life’ has nothing to do with it,” Buffy countered. “He’s a world class drunk.” Morrison looked shocked.

“Buffy,” Giles scolded her mildly, “I hardly think we need discuss—”

“By all means,” said Andrew caustically entering from his study, “discuss away. We are after all in the privacy of _my_ own home. If a man can be said to have any privacy in a home in which he can’t trust his cabinets to stay locked while he is out. Good evening, Mr. Morrison. What a lovely surprise at this late hour.” He _appeared_ quite sober, which Buffy knew, didn’t mean that much.

“Good evening,” Morrison mumbled, dropping his eyes. He might have been twelve years old. “I hope we’re not disturbing you, sir.”

Andrew laughed brittlely. “Whatever would give you that idea, Mr. Morrison. Finding the two of you in my kitchen at all hours of the night, half drunk and discussing my age and other apparent frailties with a charmingly... ‘unpretentious’ young woman, makes me feel thirty years younger!”

“ _We_ are not, half drunk,” Giles informed him thinly.

“That was last night,” Morrison mumbled, still cowed and apologetic.

Giles was neither. “We are discussing a matter of gravest importance,” he informed his father, bristling. “To wit, the recent _death_ of Milton Crowne’s daughter, of which I shall assume from your sunny mood you have not yet heard.”

“I’ve heard,” Andrew answered curtly. Giles knew he would have, sooner than he had and in more detail. Somehow he always did.

“Then you should expect us to be up ‘at all hours’ in whatever rooms are conveniently available taking what counsel we can get. If you’d like to join us,” he offered gesturing towards the table as he handed Buffy a bowl of something at last, “I’m sure we would all appreciate the benefit of your wisdom.”

Andrew looked at Morrison grimly, pointedly. “I think I should be running along,” the lawyer said. “It’s late. Daniele and the girls will have gone to bed by now. Early risers, the lot, LaShondra included. I swear, she fits in my family better than I do.”

“Well, if you really must be going,” Andrew replied heavily, “have a pleasant night.”

“I’ll see you Monday if not sooner,” Morrison apologized to Giles. “It was lovely to meet you, Buffy,” he added with a polite nod as he left.

“That’s what they all say,” Buffy agreed half ironically.

“I hardly think we need discuss this family’s business in the presence of Mr. Morrison,” Andrew chided a millisecond after the door was closed.

“Father,” said Giles impatiently. “I really don’t see the harm—”

“I _am_ in a ‘sunny’ mood,” Andrew interrupted him, sounding more disgruntled than ever. “Or I was, when first I heard the wonderful news that our heroine had just saved the life of the venerable Mr. Virgil Gaudencio while conveniently failing to save the superfluous heir to the House of Titus Facundus. Would you like me to have said that in front of Mr. Morrison?”

“Indeed I would not,” Giles replied with ruffled dignity. “It’s unseemly enough even among us.”

“Unseemly, but true,” Andrew persisted grimly. “My dear boy, you have just been saved from near certain disaster by the miraculous intervention of fate. You ought to be literally thanking your lucky stars!”

“Uh, you lost me somewhere,” Buffy said. “Weren’t the Crownes on our side?”

“And still are,” Andrew explained triumphantly, “He might think or say anything the next day or two of course, but when the dust settles, Milton won’t blame you for this. A few in his House might, but even if we lose every one of the Crowne votes, we have just unified the Hippolytons in our favor along with the Gaudencios and the Sterlings into the bargain. All without any appreciable likelihood of loss in any of the other Houses. If everyone votes as instructed, we shall win in a landslide. If not, we’ll still likely pull it out in the end. Honestly, you both ought to be dancing with joy! Discretely, of course.”

Buffy looked worriedly at Giles who took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “He’s probably right,” he admitted, “except for the bit about dancing for joy. Milton Crowne is nothing if not a Watcher. It’s not a certainty by any means. He could insist on supporting one of his Crowne cousins. But blessing Laura’s claim to the Facundian Seat is the fastest way to bring stability to the Council, particularly if it means our deal with Julian is back on.

“If we’re reasonably circumspect in going about it, we shouldn’t even lose Virgil’s vote at this point. In all likelihood, Jane’s death removes the last serious obstacle to solving all our problems. I’d have probably seen it sooner if I’d have been a bit less… appalled by all of this. All we have to do now is show the proper amount of respect and gratitude to Milton, and hope he sees this... opportunity, for lack of a better word, for what it is.”

“You may depend upon it,” Andrew insisted. “Milton’s a sensible fellow. More to the point, he is, as you say, first and above all else a Watcher. If there is one thing at which we excel, My Dear,” he added sardonically, addressing Buffy, “it is finding the up side to burying young women.”

Buffy and Giles exchanged a look. “I think I’ve married into the single most screwed up family on the face of the planet,” she said.

“Dear Child,” said Andrew with a sad little smile, “you have no idea.”

****

Xander’s heart didn’t actually stop when he saw her. It was just that the half second between beats became a minute long. For at least ten seconds after, ten seconds that lasted for days, he was breathless truly and for real. He wanted to say something cool and ambiguously hostile, like ‘Of all the Mini Marts in all the world...’ but his heart had balled into a fist and was squeezing his throat shut. She didn’t pretend not to notice him. She didn’t pretend to shop. She stood three feet inside the door and locked eyes with him. Be cool, he warned himself, be professional. Whatever she’s here for, it’s not that, whatever her eyes are saying. It’s only regret. You don’t get any points for regret.

“Can I have you?” he said in his best shop keeping voice.

She blinked twice, and by the time he realized why she was stunned she had said it. “Always!” She was trembling, there were tears in her eyes. He was half way to the Moon with elation before he was slammed to Earth by the full force of his mistake.

Xander's throat closed up again. This could not be happening. He had to take it back. He couldn’t take it back. He didn’t want to take it back. Think of Willow! He reminded himself desperately, and he did, and it broke his heart. But he still loved Cordelia, who was right in front of him, and must have felt the same way all along. _She’s just in a really difficult position with her father... she really is trying to protect you._

“I uh, I didn’t mean to say that,” he mumbled after a long moment.

“Me either,” she agreed, wiping her eyes. “It’s still not safe. That’s... well, part of why I have to talk to you. I assume there’s no sound on those cameras?” she asked, just as if she had not made sure of that in advance.

“And nobody else around,” Xander assured her. This she knew also. She had paid good money to be sure of it, correctly calculating that it would not occur to Xander to wonder how she would know that she could be sure of finding him alone in this place, at this time.

Cordelia walked over to a shelf and started pretending to shop after all. “Xander, I have to tell you something,” she began.

“Me too,” he said. “A lot of things.” It was easier when he couldn’t see her eyes.

“I have to go first,” she said. “It’s important.” He really kind of doubted it, in comparison anyways, but he let her go ahead, desperate to put off breaking her heart another minute as if there was somehow going to be a chance that he didn’t have to. Which there was. If he was willing to take it. He couldn’t. He could not do that. Not to Willow. It’d be like dumping your sister. Well... maybe not that exactly, but it would be bad. You could not be a good guy and do that. You certainly couldn’t and be a Man.

“I’m pregnant,” Cordelia said. She looked up into his eyes and stopped his heart again. “I wasn’t going to tell you,” she explained, turning back to her detailed examination of the contents of the self. “Because I know what I have to do. I can’t—we can’t. My father would kill you. I’m not being dramatic. He does that. Please—I wasn’t going to tell you, like you were just some guy...” she snatched a pack of gum at random off the self and walked up to lean on the counter. “But you’re not some guy. You’re—Xander, I love you. Please, I need you to tell me you understand. I need you to tell me—I need you to tell me—oh God Please—”

Cordelia broke off, sobbing her face in her hands. To hell with the cameras. To hell with Garrett Chase. Xander came around the counter and put his arms around her. She collapsed into his embrace. He held her for a while, stroking her hair, not saying anything. “I don’t want to have to do this,” she whispered against his chest. “Not this time. Not with you.”

“Then don’t!” he found himself saying. “Cordelia, please don’t.” His heart sank, his guts were twisted in knots. He had to tell her. He couldn’t tell her. She was already too close to doing something she was practically telling him she’d regret for the rest of her life. To protect him. “Don’t,” he repeated seriously. “I can’t give you a bunch of good reasons. I can’t even tell you it’s going to be okay, just... don’t.”

He had no right to tell her that. It couldn’t help being a promise even though he’d just said it wasn’t. There was no safe way to turn. There was no right thing to do. Like he always did when he didn’t know what to do, Xander went with his gut, he acted on impulse. He kissed her. She kissed him back. It seemed to steady her. She dried her eyes and kissed him again; fiercely, passionately, much more like Cordelia, more certain, more strong.

“I could tell him it was Mitch,” she said after a while. “If he—when he finds out. He really doesn’t know me any better than that. With Mitch, I told my mom it was Kevin.”

“Who knew living in the jaws of hell was such a convenience,” Xander tried to joke, managing only a flicker of a smile.

Cordelia flickered back at him. “I have to go,” she said. “Lunch is almost over. My father’s going out of town two weekends from tomorrow. I’ll come in again then. We’ll have more time to talk.” Xander nodded, not trusting himself to say anything.

Her hand on the door, Cordelia turned, her eyes brightening with sudden realization. “Actually,” she said, “there is another way be can talk a little, between now and then! I mean, if you still know how to log in to that email thing we had to do for Miss Calendar's class.”

****

Willow could have aced the English final in her sleep, in fact, she almost nodded off during it several times. It had apparently been written by Ms. Miller from Ms. Frank’s lesson plans and only covered the material through the time of her death. Mr. Miller on the other hand had written his test to cover things he was still planning to teach in the next four weeks.

Willow had never realized how little she actually knew about the Vietnam War. She knew all about the two World Wars and the origins of the Cold War. She didn’t have a problem with the Cuban Missile Crisis. Her father had told her all about Granada and the Iranian Revolution and the Russians in Afghanistan, which the test didn’t even get to. But Vietnam was a big fat hole in her knowledge of history, vaguely filled in with book and movie references and popular assumptions. She made her best guess of the short answers in that area, but it was one of the three essay questions as well. She skipped it and finished the rest of the test, then closed her eyes for just a minute...

“Hey! Rosenberg!” the guard/examiner shouted harshly, “Wake up and finish your test. You’ve been asleep for ten minutes.” Willow stretched and yawned. She felt like she’d slept for hours. She had, she realized with a start; she’d just done it in ten minutes! The spell was still going on! On the verge of breaking it, Willow hesitated. She didn’t have what she needed to recast it in here, and she hated to give up such a useful ability without knowing when she would need it or when she might be able to get it back.

On the plus side, the Vietnam essay question didn’t look quite as bad after a long refreshing nap. She said as much as she could say about the things she knew and as little as she could get by with about the things she didn’t and handed it in, fairly confident that even if she got a B on the test, she would still have an A in the class. She decided to pretend that was good enough and concentrate on getting through the hours that still stretched between now and dinnertime. Willow had had a long day, literally. And she was starving.

****

The news was on in the bus station. Faith tried hard to ignore it. The Great State of Arizona was gearing up to fry some poor bastard and all the bleeding hearts and talking heads in the country were stirred up about it. About that and some pervert kid in Texas who wasn’t a kid anymore but was still about to die for killing a woman and trying to rape her dead body back when he was one. “…and you know, Dave, with all the death penalty controversy across the state and across the country, folks here in Scottsdale say it only adds to the shock everyone in the community is feeling about the arrest of Dr. Douglas Ericson, Assistant Chief of Oncology here at Scottsdale Medical Center.”

Faith whirled to face to TV as if it had taken a swing at her. She felt like it had. “Yes, and since the top of the hour,” Dave was agreeing, working hard at making the segue work, “we have learned that prosecutors will be seeking the death penalty against Dr. Ericson for the murder of Detective Mallett. And of course, anti-death-penalty advocates are decrying that decision, but prosecutors had this to say:”

Faith’s eyes were glued to the screen. A fat, smug, bald man in a suit came on. “When you have an officer of the law gunned down—”

“I couldn’t get the tickets,” April started in whining, coming back from the counter. Faith shushed her. She pouted, but fell silent, watching Faith watch the news.

“—an eye for an eye is more than just plain justice, though it is that. This man, this _doctor_ , killed Zack Mallett to keep him from catching a serial killer, to stop him from keeping the peace from enforcing the law. If he has his way, there will be no one, _no one_ to protect innocent victims of violent crime. All these folks who’re so full of nice things to say about the sanctity of human life ought to think about that for a while.”

****

“It’s too late,” Joyce said worriedly, self-reproachfully. “I should have called at lunch. I keep forgetting about the time difference over there.”

“Besides,” Brian said, grinning, trying to pull her into his arms, “I think you were kind of busy over lunch.”

Joyce shrugged him off. “I should try to stay up and call about midnight,” she mused, “try to catch her before she leaves the house. She’s left two messages,” she went on, becoming increasingly agitated. “I don’t want her to worry. Especially today, or... tomorrow, whichever it is. With the reception and everything.”

“I’m sure she just didn’t think you would want to travel all that way,” Brian tried to reassure Joyce, misreading her totally. She gave him a sideways look. How could he not be able to tell the difference between self-pitying hurt feelings and motherly concern? Because he’d never had children, that was how.

Brian was Joyce’s age, almost to the month, and yet, in some ways she felt like she was dating someone much younger. There were ways in which that was great. Like in the way where he bought her flowers and called her pet names and thought that the two of them doing something, anything, together all by itself was important. And there were ways in which it was scary and heart wrenching and sometimes flat out exasperating. Like in the way where he never expected her to give any more though to what Buffy was doing or if she was alright than he would to his parents or his sister. Like in the way he’d mentioned, almost casually, not two weeks in, that he was very much looking forward to having a family of his own someday, without seeming to know how close that was, in the ears of a barely-still-thirty-nine-year-old woman, to a ultimatum to marry or break up within the year.

He hadn’t meant it that way of course, and she had been trying not to take it that way. She was still trying not to take it that way, but fate seemed to be conspiring against her. Fate! Stupidity, that’s what it was. Carelessness. Ignoring history, doomed to repeat it. ‘At our age,’ Joyce had thought, ‘there’s no need to ruin this moment by panicking about birth control.’ Instead, she had waited until her annual exam, already scheduled for less than three weeks later, to address that statistically significant but not terribly probable risk.

Now she found herself at the hinge of a natural ultimatum. It was an even scarier place than she remembered. The simplicity of ‘Am I ready for this, do I love him and will he love me back?’ seemed in hindsight almost idyllic in comparison to this nauseous dread of starting over from the beginning the hardest thing that she had ever done in her life versus throwing away the most promising glimmer of hope that she had felt in years that her life could ever really be happy again versus declaring her willingness to grasp that possibility, to embrace beautiful and terrible ordeal that it would cost, only to be told that wasn’t what he’d meant at all, that someday meant exactly that and he’d never really meant to say that she might be a part of it.

For three days she had delayed telling him. She hadn’t been ready to burst the fantasy that Brian was head-over-heels in love with her and ready to plunge into anything. She hadn’t been ready to face the consequences if he really was. She couldn’t bear the thought of asking him to give up all hope of ‘someday’ and be with her _instead_ , couldn't bear the thought of spending the rest of their life together trying to be enough, looking over her shoulder, wary that another woman would come along and offer him the chance to change his mind. If only there were more time. If only she could know him for a few more months, a few more weeks even. But this was not a secret Joyce could keep, even for a few more days. It was already putting too much strain on her, and too much distance between them.

“It’s not that,” she said, responding to what Brian had said last, though more than a few seconds had elapsed, embracing him half in apology for her earlier unthinkingly rebuff. “I’m just… worried about her all the time. It’s a mom thing. It doesn’t go away as they get older. If anything it gets worse, because you can’t protect them, you can’t always know where they are.”

“Well,” Brian suggested in a way that to a man with no children probably sounded entirely reasonable, “you might as well not worry about things you can’t do anything about. Especially when you don’t really have a reason to think that there’s anything wrong.” To be fair, she had never explained to him that she had every reason to believe that there was.

“Brian, I have to tell you something,” Joyce said at last, screwing her optimism to the sticking place, which she knew was not a normally recommended procedure for optimism, but she often found that excess optimism made up for a shortage of courage. There was not going to be a natural segue. There was never going to be a right moment. This was it. “I’m pregnant,” she said.

And the moment she realized she was waiting hopefully for him to say that was the best news he’d ever gotten, the moment she realized she was hoping with all her screwed up optimism that fate was at work after all and that their destined child would only compound the joy of their wonderful loving relationship, Brian said, “Oh shit, I just assumed you were taking something.”

His words stabbed her, but she tried not to make them more than they were. It was all on the line. She knew what she wanted now. But it was up to him. Not an easy question, but a simple one. “I’ll be forty years old on Sunday,” Joyce said. “And you don’t get any readier by waiting. If we’re going to do this we’re going to do it now. Someday belongs to somebody else.”

“Wow,” Brian said. He seemed stunned, agitated. Terrified? “That’s… that’s the truth, isn’t it?” he said, almost contemplatively. “Shit.”

Joyce’s disappointment was a spreading emptiness at her center, a black hole that she was collapsing into. Suddenly, Brian lifted her face to his and kissed her. It was not the reassuring, commiserating, regretful little kiss that she was expected. It was fierce, hungry, passionate, decisive. It was the kiss of salvation. She kissed him back, her heart swelling with hope and love and tentative joy that became overwhelmingly untentative as he lifted her in his arms and laid her down on the bed, lowering himself on top of her. They made love and the love they made was a commitment, an affirmation, a ratification of an earlier act. Joyce and Brian became Joyce & Brian. For better or for worse.

****

It was only about nine-thirty, but it felt much later. The long, long day refused to be over. Willow sat up in her bunk, reading by a light only she could see. She had used a glamour to disguise a huge box of magic and science books as fantasy and sci-fi novels. It was a text perfect glamour which she could choose to see through or not, so that, besides keeping prying eyes out of her business, it gave her twice as much to read. The stealth-lighted pages were part of it.

She’d been tempted to try to glamour in some other basic supplies, but books to books was a lot simpler to maintain with visual consistency than say candles to note cards, especially if she actually burned them, and if not, what would be the point?

Right now, though, she wasn’t so much interested in what she could do as what she couldn’t undo. It was becoming a recurrent theme. And it was getting old. After dinner, which had fallen short of satisfying the appetite she had built up over her more or less double day, she’d decided to break her spell after all. So she had, or so she thought, calling with thanks and reverence on her cooperating goddesses, asking them to please restore her to her rightful physiological state.

At lights out, despite her evening nap, she had lain down and gotten a long night of good, restful sleep. In about fifteen minutes. That left Willow six more hours to live through before she could claim to have gotten through even one full day under this spell. If she kept this up for ten weeks, she might be the best rested person in history. If she kept it up on three regulation sized JDC meals a day, she might literally starve to death.

It didn’t take Willow long to find the key to her mistake. In a book called “Problems and Pitfalls for New and Aspiring Witches” she read this reminder of something that Amy had warned her of weeks and weeks ago: _Never forget that gods and goddesses are not mere names to be recited in an incantation. They are not ‘magic words’ like ‘Abracadabra’. They are individuals with needs, rights and feelings and they will insist to varying degrees upon being respected as such. ….Most gods can become jealous to one degree or another and it is generally not recommended to call upon more than one deity in the course of a single spell unless they are close relatives, lovers or friends with a documented history of working well together.... Under no circumstances should you attempt to invoke any of the following entities simultaneously:... Thespia...Hecate... and, perhaps most importantly of all, He Who Refuses To Be Named (sometimes called the God of Jacob)...._

And then she read something else, something which Amy actually hadn't mentioned but which Willow now realized that, within reason, she should have known: _Special note on ‘Religion’ and magic: It is a common mistake, particularly among lightly to moderately observant monotheist, to assume that magic is a separate area of life from Religion and that prior religious practices can be continued as before. Not only is this practice likely to be offensive to the ‘God’ of your prior religion, it can be particularly upsetting to the “new” gods in your life who may become intensely jealous of these persisting prior relationships. If you are or have recently been a Christian, it is recommended that you avoid attempting to perform magic during the Christmas or Easter seasons for a period of at least seven years, during which these holidays should not be observed…._

_Above all, as a practitioner of the dark arts, you must understand the price of calling upon any given deity. Get to know the gods and goddesses you are planning on working with. Live in a state of prayer and contemplation with respect to them. Read in the ancient and sacred texts about their histories, habits and the things that are important to them. Get to know what types of supplications and gifts they expect from seekers of power and what types of sacrifices they are likely to demand when displeased with your work...._

****

The banging of the brass knocker persisted until both Julian and Katherine were wide awake. The first cold rays of dawn had not yet begun to light the window. The housekeeper was not required to answer the door at this time of the night, and she didn’t. Julian cursed. He had not slept four hours. “I’ll get it,” Katherine offered.

“No!” her husband said sharply. “God only knows—!”

She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Gave you a scare last night, didn’t I?”

He smiled apologetically. “A bit,” he admitted. She rose and pulled the bedroom curtains aside so that they could both look down at the front steps by the dim glow of a not-too-distant street lamp. “Good God!” Julian gasped. It was Milton Crowne. “Please,” he said, moments later, still trying to recover from his shock, “come in. Sit down. Katherine is making us some tea.”

“I don’t want any tea,” Milton said matter-of-factly. He entered and closed the door but remained standing.

“How are you...erm...getting along?” Julian fumbled awkwardly.

“Marvelous,” said Milton sardonically. “I feel I could sack a major city-state. In fact, I am gathering my fleet as we speak.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t laugh?” said Julian grimly.

“I might not forgive you if you did,” Milton replied with bitter amusement. Julian waited patiently. He’d gathered from the unmistakable classical allusion that Milton had quickly seen the advantages they both stood to gain from these unspeakable circumstances. He didn’t want to insult him by appearing too eager.

“It seems the fates have stopped the music once again on our perpetual game of musical chairs,” Milton said, circling much nearer the point. “I assume you would like me to ask a certain not-so-terribly-young lady to sit down.”

“I can hardly deny it,” Julian admitted. “And I assume Rupert is still every bit as eager to have the Robsons remain seated.”

“Most of the Crownes will be put out about it,” Milton noted indifferently, “and a lot of the young idealists. Perhaps some not-so-young ones, come to that. But my House will not defy my recommendation for the succession of our Seat. And as for Rupert, if we Resend the Recommendation to Strike, the Outer Council will have nothing to say about it.

“That should be no very difficult task,” Milton went on. “Robson is solidly with us—or rather with Rupert—come what may, as he made abundantly clear the other night, and Quentin can hardly deny us anything at this point. No matter what Dunstan or anyone else may reveal about the late and perhaps too much venerated ‘St. Peter’ Travers. Virgil, of course, will remain in favor of recession despite his abhorrence of our horse trading.

“Seeing her in the flesh yet again, in combat indeed, will have no doubt aggravated his already terrible case of transference, and the more _Dunstan_ , of all people, says against them, the worse it will get. So we should have a vote to spare at least. I can’t imagine that Davidson would stand with Dunstan knowing there’s no third, and knowing that, I doubt if Michael himself will do us the favor of rising.”

“Yes,” Julian agreed somberly, “so it would seem.” His heart still filled with retroactive panic to think of the interminable seconds that he had stood with his Seat in his hands waiting for Davidson or anyone else to his to come to his rescue. It was a terrible risk to have taken, unlike him really. But he wanted to be the leader who, at long last, had been able to do both his own family and the Robsons the incalculable service of restoring their double line to its two rightful and firmly allied permanent Seats on the Inner Council, to make the sons Hippolytus and Lucianus the indisputable central force within the Council at all levels that they knew they deserved to be. He wanted it very badly.

“Shall we convene in the Inner Chamber tomorrow night,” he suggested, eager to have the business concluded at last, “or rather tonight, I should say, as the sun shall be up at any moment?”

Milton smiled mischievously, almost cruelly. “We shall do no such thing,” he declared. “As a matter of fact, I already have plans for the evening, as I believe, do most of our brethren.”

Julian was shocked. “I assume even the Weregelders cannot possibly be insensitive enough to—”

“No, probably not,” Milton admitted. “I shall have to call Andrew while the cocks are still crowing and tell him I shall consider it a personal insult if their reception does not proceed as scheduled.”

Julian shifted from shocked to horrified. He was beginning to believe that Milton had, quite understandably, taken leave of his senses. Milton laughed at the look on his face. The more appalled Julian looked, the harder he found it to stop laughing. “No,” he said to his compeer’s unspoken question. “I have not gone mad. I’m just feeling a bit of low grade vengefulness I suppose you would say, and I’m going to ask your indulgence in getting a small measure of justice my own way.”

Julian stared at Milton a long moment. “I don’t understand,” he finally admitted.

“I am going to use this reception, among other tools at my disposal, to convince both the Weregelders and the Sterlings that I have chosen one of the Crownes as my successor and now favor a Strike against Rupert,” Milton explained with wicked mirth. “And the Robsons too for that matter, which should convince all but one of them to follow your lead at last. No matter how they do the math, they won’t be able to _hope_ for more than fifty votes.”

“Based upon what Peter has told me of his disastrous meeting with the Young Turks this past evening,” Julian noted, “I doubt very much if they can count anywhere near that many, actually, but I’m afraid I still don’t quite follow your point in all this.”

“I think,” Milton explained patiently, “that three days of living with the near certainty of doom, believing all of their schemes have failed should be just about the right amount of punishment for the lot of them, Andrew included. That and being stripped of the Seat of course. I’ve been trying to think of a way, in the process, to make dear Laura believe that she is to be left without a Seat as well, but I don’t really see how I can without giving Rupert hope that he might not be Stricken.”

“Do you mean to say!” Julian gasped, catching up at last, “that you are actually going to _mislead_ the entire Council regarding your choice of successor and your position on the most important disciplinary vote in nearly half a century as a… a… practical _joke_ against the Weregelders!”

“ _We_ are, more precisely,” Milton confirmed merrily. “And not just them, either! Can you picture the look on Michael Dunstan's face on Monday morning when _I_ call for a vote to Resend the Recommendation, and _you_ second me?”

“Yes I can,” said Julian darkly, “and somehow I don’t think there is going to be anything so terribly funny about making _that_ man that angry. Maneuvering, manipulating if that’s the word you want to use, for power, for policy, to achieve some worthy end…that we all do. That we all understand. But using this kind of feint just for… for spite! It’s beyond the pale! I mean, for the love of God, Milton!”

“To hell with God,” Milton said with casual disdain, almost indifference. “And to hell with you too for that matter. I am buying your way and the Council’s, and Rupert’s and his Slayer’s and for that matter Laura Sterling’s out of the predicaments you have all sinned and schemed and plotted yourselves into with the blood of my only child! And the _joke_ , Julian, the real punch line is, it would have never crossed my mind to father a child if I hadn’t felt it was my duty to the Council! And now that she is gone, I can’t honestly tell if I give a damn what happens to it, the world or any of you or not.

“I am holding on to this sorry world by a bottle of Clonazepam, Sir. And so, if I want to arrange the order and drama of these events to maximize my own satisfaction and amusement, I shall. And if you want to receive the benefit of my misfortune, you will play along and be convincing about it. And if you need some additional solace, just remember, Phillip Robson is going to be suffering right along with them! He called you a traitor, in Council, for doing nothing more or less than supporting the interests of your own House as you see them. Don’t you want to teach him just a little bit of humility for that?”

Julian gave Milton a look of very grudging acknowledgment. He could hardly deny it. But the situation with Robson raised another concern. “How can you be sure,” he asked, “that your House will not defy your recommendation after… toying with them in this way?”

“Because,” Milton explained with his best cryptic smile, “I know facts about the personal life of my likeliest Crowne successor, and more particularly of his eldest son, that even Laura Sterling doesn’t know.”


	17. Grocery Clerks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the day of Buffy and Giles's belated wedding reception rolls on towards evening and another long night rolls on towards morning back home in the States, the politics of the upcoming apocalypses are becoming increasingly personal for everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part III: Where the Heart Is

“Such is the will of GOD!” Buffy cried, her tone an unholy union of authority and anguish. Giles opened his eyes. She was sitting bolt upright in bed, trembling. He sat up and put his arms around her.

“Another nightmare?” he guessed.

“The same one,” Buffy said, already calming a little. “What time is it?”

“Five-thirty,” Giles told her. “You’ve only slept a few hours.”

“I should be out there,” Buffy said worriedly.

“Doing what exactly?” he countered reasonably, “Other than attracting the attention of the police.”

Buffy knew he was right, but it didn’t change what she was feeling. “I made a promise,” she said. “I told those vampires whoever killed any of our people last night was going to die. But one of them killed Jane anyway. And it’s still walking around. I don’t even know which one it is, let alone where to find them. Just another bluff, another bluster. A threat I can’t make good on. That’s not good enough. That’s not going to convince Milton Crowne or anyone else that the Council can’t live without me or that they can’t live without you because of me. I have to do better than that. I have to! I won’t let them take you away from me!”

“They aren’t going to,” he assured her fiercely. “In the first place, they can’t. I’m never going to leave you, damn the Council and their Proceedings. But more to the point, from what Quentin has told us of the last meeting, it is only Julian’s opposition that has kept the Recommendation from being Rescinded this long and Milton was among those willing to oust him from his Seat because of it. No, the more I think about it, the more certain I am that my father is right, regardless of his bloodless way of putting it. In all likelihood, my Striking will never be put to a vote, and if it is, we shall win, thanks to Milton.”

“Which just makes it suck even worse that I can’t keep my promise,” Buffy said, insisting on clinging to her guilty misery. Giles knew the dreams she was having weren’t helping, which only compounded his regret for his part in causing them. Worse probably than the parts of his past she was struggling to come to terms with were the implications of that past for the present and future which she seemed to be struggling not to. Giles held her close, saying soothing words of love, stroking her hair. With everything else she was going through, Buffy didn’t need the burden of too deeply understanding the fact that they were still serving, and at the same time in danger of crossing, an organization with a long and well documented history of having people murdered.

****

The shop door opened with a politely insistent tinkling of bells. “Blesséd be!” Ms. Waddle called with automatic cheerfulness, a half second before looking up from her work.

“It’s raining again,” Ms. Caramel said grimly, locking the door behind her. “Looks like it's going to storm all night.” With her dour face and black umbrella, she looked like one of a cue of nannies waiting to be blown away by Mary Poppins.

“Well then it’s good we’re in out of the weather,” Ms. Waddle tried to mollify her. Her expression remained skeptical.

“It’d be a fine night to be meeting at The House,” Ms. Myrtle chirped, somehow present without having arrived per se.

“Well we can’t even begin to approach that subject under current conditions,” Ms. Caramel pointed out sourly. “In fact, I doubt if anything worthwhile is going to get done in the next ten weeks. We might as well really be shopkeepers.”

“Oh I wouldn’t say _nothing_ is getting done,” Ms. Waddle countered, her perpetual smile taking on a slightly mischievous quality. Not from what I saw when I read Her energy this morning. I would say She is well on Her way to becoming what we hope for Her to be and ought to be pretty noticeable so in another ten weeks.”

“You don’t mean—!?!” Ms. Myrtle twittered excitedly. Ms. Waddle nodded, smiling more than ever.

“Well I’ll be sure to say ‘Mozel tov’ when we finally get to see her in a few _months_!” Ms. Caramel bleated contemptuously. “Her physical state is not the issue. If anything we could have wished for that to advance more slowly, to give us more time to have an influence on Her as She is… becoming more Herself.”

“Oh for Gaea’s sake,” Ms. Waddle countered mildly, “It’s only seventy days. She hasn’t even begun to uncover Her own history, nor is She likely to confined to a prison. It’s not like She’s going to emerge and directly take up Her ‘rightful place’ as a Mother in Her own House without the need for guidance.”

“Perhaps not,” Ms. Caramel conceded grudgingly. “But if She feels Herself suddenly in desperate need of guidance at this stage, I don’t believe we have yet given Her enough reason to turn to us. Mark my words, as soon as She realizes precisely what is amiss, we’ll be lucky if she even seeks the ‘guidance’ of Her Rabbi before delivering herself into the hands of some learned and licensed white-coated glorified abortionist who can ‘explain’ to Her oh so subtlety that She must do what She is expected to want or be accused of succumbing to the demands of patriarchy! She is enough Her mother’s daughter yet to fall for that I assure you!”

Ms. Waddle laughed lightly. “Dear Sister,” she said, “Give me a little credit. I certainly hope I’m witch enough to prevent that.”

****

Somewhere in Eastern Europe there is a monastery, though whether it is a Christian monastery or the other kind is open to debate. Certainly the Pope holds no sway there, nor the Patriarch. The Archbishop of Canterbury has never even heard of it. The locals say it has been there for two thousand years. That is a bit of an exaggeration. The monks say that they are all brothers. That is no exaggeration at all. There _is_ one woman there. A mother of many, many sons. She looks good for her age.

They do a lot of chanting, these brothers, these monks, and when any other sound escapes their lips it is because they have something very important to say.

“It is as certain as it can be now that the problem of the father is resolved,” one brother said to a few others, or at least, he said something very similar, in a very different language. His brothers nodded. Time passed.

“Mother cannot leave this place,” another brother noted at length. There was more nodding. No one needed to say that that meant they would also stay. They knew each other well enough to know that. What they had done would create ripples. Would create rumors. One day soon The Beast would learn of It. And she would come.

****

The sounds of screaming, gunfire and things breaking terrified April. She ducked down under the steering column, but she stayed put and kept the engine running. Faith had told her to wait. She waited. Sirens wailed. Alarms sounded. When Faith raced from the building, half dragging a man in an orange jumpsuit, flames could be seen in the doorway behind her. She was wearing her black leathers with the executioner’s hood.

“—you still didn’t have to kill him!” the man, who had to be Dr. Ericson, could be heard to complain.

“Button it, Doug,” Faith said impatiently, shoving him into the back seat and climbing in after him. “I just saved your ass. Again. Hit it, Blondie,” she added, meaning April. The car lurched forward into the street. Doug didn’t say anything for a while. There was nothing to say. There was blood on his jumpsuit. There were bodies in their wake. And Faith had saved his ass. This time not from herself. At least, not directly.

“Where are we going?” he asked resignedly. Before Faith or her little friend could answer, the car lurched suddenly to a stop. An armored car was blocking their path. A second, third and fourth instantly hemmed them in on all sides.

“By the Authority of the Watcher’s Council of Britain!” commanded a darkly disdainful voice amplified by megaphone, “Surrender the Slayer or prepare to die!”

“Oh God!” April wailed, “Oh my God!”

“Hush,” said Faith calmly. “I’m trying to think.”

“Hand me a gun,” Douglas said firmly. “I’m a pretty good shot.”

Faith handed him two fully loaded semi-automatics that she had taken off cops who were no longer breathing, but she warned him to sit tight for a minute more. “This isn’t the firing rage at the country club, Doc,” she said grimly. “These targets shoot back. They want me alive, not either of you. We need a strategy.”

“You think you can kick your way through the windshield of one of those things?” Douglas asked.

“Bet on it,” Faith said firmly. He could hear her smile as she added, “Get your guns cocked, Pops. I’m about to surrender!”April looked if possible even more frightened and confused, but Doug was grinning and nodding his approval. He quickly explained the plan to April, and Faith nodded back, satisfied with what he understood, then added a few words of further explanation. It was Doug’s turn to nod in agreement.

A minute later, Faith climbed through the sun roof, holding her hands above her head. She could almost hear their assailants fractionally relaxing, letting their guard down just enough. She jumped into the air and landed with both feet on the more or less bulletproof glass. It was exactly the right amount more and less than bulletproof. The front passenger let off a panicked pistol shot that lodged in and weakened it. Before he could get off a second shot, Faith was standing in his lap. She smashed his skull with his gun while it was still in his hand and kicked the driver right in his gawking face at the same time. In no more than a second, both men were dead.

A burst of machine gun fire strafed the upper half of the surrounded car. Despite the crashing and banging of glass and metal, they were warning shots. The enemy expected Doug and April to be lying flat in the floorboards, expected to be able to threaten Faith with their destruction, to bargain with her for their survival.

People forget how thin the floor board of a car actually is. And how hard some girls can kick. Rolling on his back, Doug shot up through the not-at-all-armored bottom of the machine-gunner’s vehicle. Someone screamed. It was impossible to be sure that he had killed anyone, but the hail of bullets that ripped through the bottomless car all the way down to the pavement came only from two directions. Doug ended his roll in the ditch on the other side of the enemy vehicle, still clutching both guns, a full second before the surviving driver finally got around to flooring it.

Faith swung the back door open and let April in, pulling her to the floor as bullets started flying through the lack of a windshield. The driver in motion swung around in the middle of the street and rammed into them with as much speed as he could build up on the four second journey, which was not a lot, but enough. April lay flat on the floor but was still thrown painfully forward against the driver’s seat. Faith leapt into the air and let the windshield come to her, easily breaching it with both feet. As she flew past the driver, she grabbed him by the head, snapping his neck.

There were now two vehicles, one heavily armored, between Faith and the forwardmost armored car, the one captained by Sir Walter Megaphone. But the right-hand assault vehicle was backing up to pull alongside once again. Sirens blared everywhere. Police were approaching from both ends of the street, shouting through their own megaphones for all the combatants to surrender. Bursts of machine gun fire held them at bay.

While the British were thus engaged, the Ericsons regrouped. April scrambled from beneath the second vehicle and was let in as before, Doug close on her heals, making the most of the machine gun cover, perfect target that he was in his orange jumpsuit. He laid his pistols on the floor and pulled the cargo doors firmly shut. A cop took a shot at him even though they were still in the middle of their last verbal warning. He missed, but not by much. More bullets followed, ricocheting harmlessly off the back of the truck.

There were in fact two bodies on board Dr. Ericson noticed. The one slumped forward in the passenger seat had an Uzi in his lap and an exit wound in the top of his head. The awe Doug felt was the bastard child of horror and euphoria. He didn’t have time to feel it long. Gunfire from the one well positioned Council vehicle was flying through the not-a-windshield-anymore. Douglas wretched the repeating weapon from the dead hands of his vanquished enemy and, using the body as a shield, returned fire. April stayed low, but it was hard to stay low enough. There were ricochets.

Faith got behind the wheel, which at least was still partly screened by glass. She swung the truck around and rammed the cops, who had both a lighter vehicle and less firepower. She screamed in rage and pain as she stomped the accelerator, but the forwardmost police vehicle was pushed out of the way, leaving her room to weave between a second and third, rarely keeping more than three wheels on pavement. Faith sped up and headed for the desert. One of their two remaining assailants, the megaphone mobile, was stopped by the tangle of colliding cop cars in their wake. The other rolled over trying to leave the pavement to go around. A few miles out, the Ericson vehicle left the road more successfully, bouncing into the night, it’s lights out, while police screamed by on the pavement.

A very few minutes after going off-road, Faith stopped the truck behind a paltry screen of scrub oaks and pulled off her mask. “Alright, Doug!” she said with vicious enthusiasm as she watched him carefully lay the body of the man he had killed on the floorboard. “How does it feel to finally pop your cherry?”

“Didn’t anybody ever teach you when to shut the fuck up?” Doug countered sourly.

“You sure as hell di—” Faith’s voice caught in her throat. April had not made a sound for as long as either of them could remember, and now they both saw why. “Holy fuck!” Faith said, sounding half shocked and half angry. The girl’s face and chest were ripped open by gunfire. Her blood covered the floor of the van. She was dead.

“Stupid bitch!” Faith said bitterly, shaking her head and sniffing back tears. Doug felt like he should put his arm around her or something, but if she was about to have a meltdown, he was frankly already too close. “Fuck it,” she said after a moment. “Miles to go.”

“We have to get rid of this truck soon,” Doug said, relieved she was ready to change the subject. “But I don’t think we want to try to walk from out here.” As much as Faith was obviously very deeply affected by her friend’s death, as much as that was actually a pretty fucking awesome sign for her mental health, this was no time to grieve and grow and have breakthroughs. This was a time to keep moving and not die.

“No fucking way,” Faith agreed. “That’s not why I stopped. You gotta drive, Doc. I broke my goddamned legs.”

****

For what seemed like the hundredth time that hour, Orlando’s ‘phone’ ‘rang’, though in his opinion that was not an accurate description of either the device or the noise by which it incessantly summoned him. He was growing tired of the ‘modern’ world. He longed for the peace and solitude the Citadel.

How odd it seemed to remember so fondly his life of training and study yet not to relish in the least the task he’d spent his whole life preparing to perform. The glorious and noble sacrifice of death in battle for the cause of righteousness he had been prepared for. The bitter sweet reward of surviving his holy task and living out his life with no more purpose than a tree which turns its face to heaven and stands in patient solitude waiting to fall, that he had likewise been prepared for. This prolonged circling of the enemy, being ‘too valuable to the overall strategy’ to be the one to cross swords with her, this he had not prepared for, had not anticipated.

The name of The Order not withstanding, intrigue was not, at least in Orlando’s view, a significant or worthy part of what it meant to be a Knight. He was aware, however, that his was not the only view of the matter.

“I’m in,” the voice on the other end of the line said quietly, perhaps a touch smugly.

“Meaning?” Orlando prompted thinly. That his brother in arms had ruthlessly seduced the poor woman he judged best positioned to allow him to get close to the true Slayer and determine to what extent she might be involved in the fulfillments of prophesy at hand was hardly news. The tactic, effective though it might be, turned Orlando’s stomach, but the General had been reasonably clear in his tacit approval of it, saying only, ‘Everyone has his own way.’

“She’s asked me to move in with her,” Brian clarified, “She’d marry me if I would but suggest it.”

“Then you had better do so,” Orlando advised, “before this sudden whim is changed as suddenly.”

“You would have me swear a false vow?” Brian asked dryly. “Before God? You should know me better.”

“Sin is sin,” Orlando pointed out grimly. “If one is to sin in the name of expediency, then I should think he would choose whichever sins are likely to be most effective.”

“I would gladly sacrifice my own soul to do the will of God,” Brian informed him piously. “But before sacrificing my word of honor as well, I require some proof that there is truly a need. It is not by her whim but by my own design and (dare I say) the grace of God that this woman finds herself so eager to… compound our entanglement with knots. She is carrying my child.”

“Brother!” Orlando half gasped half scolded. He’d never understood or cared for Brian much. Though he was a Knight and the son of a Knight of Byzantium, going back no less than forty generations, just as Orlando was, he had not been reared in the Citadel School and had spent little time there before the age of eighteen. Though he had now lived within the walls almost as long as Orlando had been alive, his ‘way’ still seemed suspiciously Western and what he meant by any of his various and too frequent uses of the word ‘honor’ was unfathomable.

“Sin is sin,” Brian echoed. It was hard to tell if he was amused or offended. “And I am as honor bound to my sins as any Knight who ever lied or killed in the service of Our Lord, Brother.”

“The General is keeping a very close eye on the situation,” Orlando said coolly, changing the subject. “He is making arrangements to be prepared, if need be, to sail for California with three hundred horse.”

“Ah,” said Brian appreciatively, “Now that’s what I call reconnaissance in force! What happened to ‘we have to be more subtle than the enemy’?”

“The enemy has not proved to be particularly subtle,” Orlando replied grimly and informed him of the night’s events.

“Well I’ll be—! Amazed,” Brian replied, amused at himself.

“So I fear,” Orlando replied. “So I fear.”

“Well, if she is coming here,” Brian replied, as if he could have missed Orlando’s meaning, “we’ll know soon enough. Then the ball will be in the Slayer’s court. And I will be here to see which way she jumps.”

“Surely she will not defend the Key of the Beast!” Orlando insisted.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Brian said. “Those prophesies are pretty ambiguous if you ask me. Besides, from what I’ve read, a Slayer is like a sheep dog. If you whistle for her just right, she’ll defend pretty much anything.”

****

The tinkling of tiny bells startled Xander from his near stupor and impelled him to his feet for at least the tenth time that night. The fast paced world of retail had no time for his confusion and grief. “Can I help you?” he asked tiredly, without really looking up.

“I hope so,” said a horrifyingly familiar voice, but with a strange new uncertainty. Pulse pounding terror gripped Xander as he looked up to see exactly the impossibility that he had heard. Angle looked grim and acutely uncomfortable, like his old, old self, Mr. Cryptic Wiseguy. “I need to know,” he said, “where I can find Buffy.”

When the boy rushed and dove and thrust his hand under the counter, Liam assumed he was reaching for a panic button. He kept speaking, trying to explain, not really worried by the threat of arrest. The sudden glint of metal in Xander’s hand brought him up short. He rushed forward without thinking, centuries of invulnerability having robbed him of the instinct to duck and panic in the face of handguns. The first shot was high and wide, the work of a terrified novice. Liam didn’t let him get off a second. He leapt over the counter and crashed solidly into the young man’s chest, knocking the air from his lungs and the gun from his hands. “Xander, it’s me,” he tried to explain, fierce frustration in his voice.

“I know,” Xander grunted, struggling to free himself, or at least to free a hand to attack with. “That’s why I’m gonna kill you, you son-of-a-bitch!”

“You’re not listening,” Liam grunted back, as if having to struggle just as fiercely to counter him. “Feel!” he demanded, pulling Xander’s hand tight against his chest. “I’m not a vampire!”

“AH!” Xander screamed in disgust and horror. Then the total shock struck him. “Holy shit!” he cried, his own heart nearly stopping as he felt Angel’s hammering.

“It’s me!” Liam repeated. “ _Just_ me! I’m not a vampire.”

“You’re still a murderer!” Xander shouted, wailed almost. What the kid felt was mostly grief, Liam realized, mixing up with fear and confusion into a kind of synthetic but very passable anger. “I’ll kill you!” the boy repeated (though clearly powerless at the moment to do any such thing) adding, of all the things he could have added in support of his main point, “You broke Willow’s heart!”

“I didn’t!” Liam insisted, knowing exactly what he meant. “I wasn’t ever there! It was Angelus! I am _not_ Angelus! You might as well call Rupert Giles Eyghon!”

“Bullshit!” Xander insisted fiercely. Liam began to worry that he might actually be too simple for this. But then, it probably didn’t matter. The boy didn’t have to comprehend what he was being told to repeat it. He didn’t have to believe it either, for that matter.

“I have to get a message to Buffy!” he reiterated. “You have to tell me where she’s gone.”

“Fuck you!” Xander said. “I’m not telling you shit!”

“Something is happening,” Liam tried again to explain, still having to hold the boy down, trying to bruise him a little as possible. “Buffy may be in danger. She definitely is if she’s with Giles and his so called ‘Council.’ They’re different than you think! They are not who they say they are!”

“Look who’s talking!” Xander accused bitterly, panting, still struggling.

“You don’t understand,” Liam repeated for what felt like the millionth time. “There’s a ritual, a test their planning to put her through, one they don’t necessarily plan for her to survive!” He took a deep breath and repeated exactly what Mrs. Post had told him. “It’s called the ‘Rite of Cruciamentum.’”

“Bullshit!” Xander grunted again. “Like you give a shit about Buffy. You’d better get your ass out of town, because if your still here when Buffy and Giles get back, they’re gonna kill you! And if they don’t I will!” Xander finally got a hand free and punched Angel right in the mouth.

Liam grabbed the boy by his collar and half lifted him off the floor. He shoved him backwards, off his feet. “You don’t understand,” he said with the gentle patience of a martyr. “I don’t blame you! I’m sorry,” he added quietly, bowing his head as he turned with somber dignity and walked towards the door. In the doorway her turned back. “But just remember,” he began in a tone of wise, gentle warning as he began to raise his head to meet Xander's gaze, “Buffy is in grea—”

Xander shot Angel in the face with the gun he had recovered from the floor. His glowery forehead exploded exactly like it would have done in the movie _Scanners_. He fell forward, laying face down in the pool of blood that soon began to spread. Second after endless second, it spread and kept spreading around the body, quickly at first, because his heart was beating, then more slowly, because it wasn’t.

Blood. Around the body. Blood. Not dust. Blood, around the body. Of the man he’d just shot. And killed. Xander emitted a high, half-strangled sound of hysteria that might have met some definitions of a laugh. This would probably be a pretty good time to panic. ‘Run!’ his brain was screaming at him, in fact, ‘What are you waiting for? Run!’

He _couldn’t_ run. Where would he run? Even the Sunnydale Police could not possibly stand where Xander was standing and fail to figure out that he had done this. His worst enemy was laying face down in the floor of the store that he and only he was working in, shot with his boss’s gun that he and only he could have pulled out from under the cash register, and which had his fingerprints all over it.

“Ah!” he screeched and dropped the gun at last, the instant he realized he was still holding it. Instinctively, he kicked it under the counter, to hide it, which was silly because it solved nothing. The gun was not the problem. It _belonged_ in the Quick-Mart. It lived here. Under the cash register. It would be missed if it went missing.

What he needed to get rid of was the body.

****

“How many vampires are left in this accursed city?” Wilhelmina asked, with grave impatience.

“Forty-two that we could find alive,” her chief minion replied, “Twenty who _say_ they’ll come and a dozen more wavering. Honestly, I expect about fifteen. Less if they gather in advance and see how weak we are. At least,” he tried to reassure her, “we should have the element of surprise.”

“Perhaps,” she mused, “but _I_ will be surprised if the ‘elements’ of that plan have arisen in time. More likely we are in for a siege.”

“We haven’t nearly the force for that,” he pointed out grimly.

Wilhelmina was quiet for a moment, then she said decisively, “Call upon the reluctant half again, and anyone else you think might need stiffening. Give them a little bit of St. Crispin’s Day. Only make it crystal clear that _I_ will give them reasons far more compelling than honor and glory to regret being safe in their beds this night, even if the Slayer doesn’t.

“Meanwhile send a call out to every corner of Britain. Bloody Hell, call Paris! What’s a tunnel for?! This is a matter of survival. If we don’t stand together against this Slayer, and I mean the blessed _lot_ of us, she will kill us all.”

****

“Well?” Bonner demanded without looking up as Hastard entered the room.

“Nothing,” Hastard answered grimly. “The survivor from the roll over is still in CCU, the other driver hasn’t said anything but ‘I want a lawyer’ and Mr. Megaphone has even less to say than that. Not a scrap of ID anywhere. Not a passport, not a license plate.

“They’re pros.” Bonner agreed. “But at what?” A statewide police data base search and a quick browse through the world wide web and every periodical index they could think of for, ‘The Watcher’s Council of Britain’ and ‘The Slayer’, had turned up nothing but the kind of rumors and urban legends that could have made the Fortean Times: the kind of Illuminatus bullshit that only the most ‘inquiring minds’ would want to know about. The Council was supposed to be something like a British Skull and Bones, the Slayer some kind of supernatural hero or menace. The two were linked, but sources differed as to how.

“They’ve got serious hardware,” Hastard observed, “not military issued, at least not British or Israeli or anything obvious like that. Either they’re some kind of Mafia or mercs or some kind of spooks that want to come off that way.” After a pause he added, “Do you think it’s time to call in the Feds?”

“No,” Bonner answered firmly. It was a gut reaction but there were reasons for it. None he cared to share, all running along the lines of ‘what the hell is she?’ and ‘Who _else_ would be behind something like this?’ And what if Douglas Ericson _didn’t_ kill Zack Mallet?

“This is bigger than us,” Hastard argued.

“Bigger than us?” Bonner demanded, “Are we the goddamned Arizona State Police or aren’t we? Is this still a sovereign state or isn’t it?”

Hastard looked at him at once skeptically and sympathetically, transitioning to comprehending and accepting. It was a look that said that, although he still thought calling in the FBI was the right thing to do, although he considered defending the honor of the Sovereign State of Arizona to be the lamest possible excuse not to do it, he understood Bonner’s fear that all of this would end in his being told by some asshole in a gray suit and black, shiny shoes that he didn’t ‘need to know’ what was really going on, that everything about this case (including the identity of his friend’s murderer) was classified and not to worry his local yokel head about it.

The truth was, if whatever was going on was half as strange as it felt or half as international as it clearly seemed to be, chances were, the Feds would swoop in on their own any day and take over. But in the name of getting a few personal answers first, Hastard respected Bonner’s decision not to invite them in.

****

They dumped the bodies of the two Englishmen in the desert. Doug had stolen enough clothes off of each of them that at least he was no longer wearing a neon orange sign that screamed ‘fugitive!’ They kept April in the back, rolled up in the bloodstained carpet so that at least a casual glance through the window was not enough to prove they were transporting a dead body. Faith lay next to her, quiet, but not asleep, stoically bearing her pain. Doug drove.

At an all-night gas station in the middle of nowhere he stopped and pulled around behind the building, where the one clerk on duty was parked. “This wreck looks like hell,” he explained. “We gotta ditch it before we hit any traffic or roadblocks. Plus we need to get some cash. I left my wallet in my other life.”

Faith silently handed her father a loaded handgun. Doug slipped it into the waistband of his pants and let his oversized shirt hang down over it, silently praying that his victim would not be the heroic type. He had never killed an _innocent_ person. With his own hands. Yet. At least, not unless it was in the process of fighting something else that was killing them already. He wasn’t anxious to start.

The girl behind the counter looked about eighteen. There was no reason why she shouldn’t be, but it startled him. Doug found himself looking at teenage girls a little differently since he’d been reminded that he was the father of one. Nevertheless he flirted with the girl, easily, expertly. He used his bruised and swollen face to his advantage, making fun of himself for what he implied was a heroic but futile fight for love. She was blushing and grinning in seconds. When she assured Doug that she was neither married nor engaged, he professed not to believe her, playfully demanding to inspect her fingers for rings. When both of her hands were splayed flat on the counter, he shoved his gun in her face. “Keep ‘em there,” he said, “I’m coming around.”

“I’m a virgin,” the girl said, trembling, near tears. Guilt stabbed Doug in the heart. The kid was terrified and she had every right to be.

“I’d keep that to myself if I were in your shoes,” he advised with cool bravado. “But your secret’s safe with me. This is strictly business, kid. I’ve got about as much going on in my personal life as I can handle right now. But don’t think you can fuck with me either. I’ve already killed once tonight.”

Doug stood behind his cringing victim and inspected the area around the cash register for anything that looked like a panic button. Not seeing any, he had her turn around and open the register. She put the cash in a plastic grocery bag, all but the change, which he told her not to hassle with.

“Where are the cameras?” he asked. She told him there was only one and pointed it out. She screamed when he shot it through the lens.

“Chill,” he warned her, making his voice sound very hard. She was weeping unceasingly now. Doug had to talk himself out of getting mad at her. He had a desperate human being on his hands, a dangerous animal, and Doug resented being afraid even more than being feared.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” he warned yet again as he marched her at gunpoint out onto the floor of the store and towards the restrooms. There was one window in the ladies room, but he judged it too small and too high for her to get out of. He made her go inside and lock the door. Then he stuck a toothpick in the key hole.

He’d forgotten to ask her for her car keys, but he found them in her purse under the counter. Along with half a box of condoms. Doug grinned and shook his head. Tactical virgin. He stood by his opinion that that was bad strategy when faced with any actual rapist, but some people might happen to draw the line there he supposed.

He dumped her purse on the counter and searched through everything just in case, but he wasn’t surprised enough to be disappointed by the lack of narcotics. He felt weird leaving almost twenty dollars in her purse, something he never would have done in his previous life of crime, but he would have felt guilty taking it. The store owner, on the other hand, was either insured or a moron. Doug wasn’t a kid anymore. He stuck the bag of cash inside his shirt, did a little quick grocery shopping and grabbed half a dozen cartons of cigarettes before he turned out the lights and locked the door.

Doug carried Faith to the clerk's car, a white not-so-late model Ford sedan so forgettable that he could probably drive it as far as he wanted just by changing the plates. She was past the shock and adrenaline, in much too much pain to walk. He set her sideways in the back with her legs stretched out and handed her the money, a phonebook, a Coca-Cola, and a bottle each of extra-strength Advil and Tylenol.

“Kill anybody?” she asked as he got behind the wheel.

“You keeping score?” he asked, sounding angrier than he really meant, still freaked out by the whole situation.

“No contest,” Faith said, her bluff indifference thin and shaky, dropping her eyes.

“Take two of each,” Doug said, turning the motor on and putting the car in gear. “It’s all we’ve got. Find me a clinic or a doctor’s office between here and Phoenix and I can do better.”

They were in no need of hospital or emergency room, Doug explained. They were looking for someplace closed. He had all the expertise he needed to set a few broken bones even if he hadn’t done it in a while. What he lacked was equipment, supplies.

“What about April?” she asked.

“They’ll find her by morning,” he said. “Somebody will bury her. There’s nothing else we can do.”

Doug was relieved to pull out onto the street. They had been here almost twenty minutes. Even this deep into the night, even with the thousand watt invitation turned off, they were bound to have company soon. Faith bitched because he hadn’t pinched any booze, even when he explained about blood thinners and internal injuries. She wasn’t much of a whiner, never had been. Doug knew she was really hurting, but right now there was nothing he could do about it.

“I locked the clerk in the bathroom,” he explained when they had driven far enough that he didn’t think Faith would try to talk him out of leaving her alive. “We have to switch tags before she gets out and reports her car stolen.”

Faith went on quietly counting the money. “Four-hundred and thirty-two dollars,” she reported, though he hadn’t asked. For an aggravated fucking robbery and arguable kidnapping that could have turned into felony murder real quick.

“Goddamn I hate being poor,” Doug grumbled, “I just about forgot how much. Twenty-four hours ago I wouldn’t have copped a petty misdemeanor for four-hundred dollars. Or for forty-thousand probably. I wouldn’t have wanted to risk my license.”

“Oh damn,” Faith said, mildly disappointed, “We left four-hundred dollars’ worth of Crystal in April’s pocket.”

Doug wasn’t sorry. “That shit’s poison,” he said. “And believe me, I know poison. I’d rather steal.”

Faith shrugged. She didn’t see the need to mention that she actually had most of the four-hundred dollars she’d been paid for it tucked in the cleavage of her outfit-so-tight-she-didn’t-need-a-bra. She liked Doug, even if he was her father, and he was good in a tight spot, but that didn’t mean she was ready to open a joint bank account.

****

“I don’t like it,” Andrew said, poking a little hole in the grim silence that otherwise smothered the breakfast table.

“It’s probably just a reflexive attempt to be polite,” Giles tried to argue, mostly with himself, Buffy thought. “At any rate, we have no choice but to make the best of it. Milton was, as you say, quite adamant, and the caterers are already at work.”

“Damn the caterers,” Andrew said impatiently. “I’ve known Milton Crowne since the day he was born, and he is up to something. Nothing good. Perhaps he is taking this whole business a bit harder than I thought.”

“ _Some_ people would, you know,” said Giles thinly. “Evidently most parents get quite attached to their children, or so I’ve heard.”

“I think most children treat their parents with a bit more respect than pawns on a chessboard,” Andrew countered sourly.

The phone rang. Buffy jumped to answer it, grateful for the interruption, hoping it was her mom. She hadn’t thought this day could be more tense and gut-twisting than her actual wedding day had been, but so far it ranked.

The men kept snarking and sniding all along the razor’s edge between passive and aggressive. She had to say Giles’ name twice to get his attention. “It’s Robson,” she explained, “he sounds… incredibly happy but he won’t tell me why. He says it’s a surprise.”

Within seconds of taking the phone, Giles was indeed both happy and surprised. “They actually spoke to Milton?!” he cried in joyful incredulity, “both Evan and his son?”… “Well, no, of course not,” Giles said, chastened but not very. “Yes, poor Evan. I’m sure he must be terribly disappointed, nasty, nasty business is politics, we’re all terribly, terribly sorry.” … “Yes, I do hope they are able to… come to terms with one another. Well, fathers and sons, you know, it’s always a bit difficult I suppose.” He ignored the snort of mild contempt this elicited from Andrew.

“Why, that’s brilliant!” he agreed loudly, sounding even happier and more excited. “I’ll come right over.” He hung up the phone, laughed triumphantly, lifted Buffy off the ground and spun her around, kissed her on the lips and set her back on her feet, twirling her around once more.

“It’s done!” he declared. “Milton has already spoken with Evan Crowne _and_ his son Jacob! And Jacob has told his father that _he advised_ Milton to give the Seat to Laura Sterling instead of his father because his father is a drunk! And that he is certain from Milton’s relieved reaction that that is exactly what he plans to do! Robson is so sure of it he’s calling a meeting for tomorrow to vote again on Rescinding the Recommendation! God, I never really let myself believe it until now!”

Giles grabbed Buffy and kissed her again, as though he would have liked to have laid her down on the breakfast table and made love to her in celebration. Truthfully, if Andrew hadn’t been there he might have. “I’ve got to go!” he said, still grinning, still _bubbling_. “Robson and—I need to—to do something!”

He looked as though he might clap or dance a jig, really and truly. “God!” he declared, “I am the luckiest man alive!”

“Well,” said Buffy, blinking bemusedly at the door he closed behind him, “I guess I’ll just stay here then. No, I don’t mind.” Bemused was escalating to annoyed, approaching upset. “Have a great time,” she told the door. “I’ll just sit here alone in a strange city with some ol—with... nothing to do for the next twelve hours.”

“Oh for God’s sake, girl!” Andrew groused, getting up to pour himself another drink, “do shut up!” Buffy rounded on the old man fully intending to stand up for herself, to let him have it with both barrels, verbally of course. But her tongue failed to lash when she saw him. Andrew Giles was crying!

He was nowhere near drunk enough to cry for no reason. He’d only had a shot or so of gin with his orange juice and a little whiskey in his coffee. And by his own standards, he had gone to bed last night practically sober. From the way he’d just spoken to her, and the sullen, jerky, four-year-old way he was wiping at his tears with the sleeves of his pajamas, she didn’t think they were tears of joy.

****

Xander closed the store at twelve on the dot. But he didn’t go home. He drove to Willow’s, parked the white Lexis in the garage and got into the silver one. He didn’t have the keys for the silver one. No way was he opening the trunk of the white one again. No way was he leaving here with what was still in it either. Not yet. He was still too freaked out. Maybe in a couple of days… Whatever, just not yet.

He went inside to look for the keys and was stabbed in the heart with a completely different regret. He wanted to call out to Willow, to hear her voice in return, but she wasn’t there. There was only Sheila. And Amy. And all those little rats. The keys were on the hook by the kitchen door. Right where they should be. The only thing that was.

All the way home, Xander prayed that his parents were already in bed. But apparently he wasn't one of God's favorite people. He waited until ten or fifteen seconds had elapsed without the sound of glass breaking before he risked opening the front door and making a break for the basement stairs. The shouting continued unabated. “—because you’re not my mother you fucking cunt!” his dad bellowed simultaneous with whatever iteration of ‘why can’t you’ or ‘how could you’ his mom was on. He was almost there. The door knob was in his hand. He turned it. He pulled the door open. “Where the hell do you think you’re going!” So, so close.

“To bed?” Xander suggested hopefully.

“Your shift ended half an hour ago!” Tony fumed, “Where the hell have you been?!” He was red in the face and huffing and puffing like he’d been running a marathon. You’d have thought that Jessica would have either leapt to her son’s defense or discretely gotten herself out of the line of fire. No such.

“Were you even _at_ work?!” she demanded.

“Yeah, Ma, I was at work,” Xander snapped, suddenly angry. “I said I was at work, and I was at work!”

“Don’t talk to your mother like that!” Tony shouted.

“You just called her a fucking cunt!” Xander countered, then dodged, because as soon as he heard the words come out he knew he was about the get popped in the mouth. Tony wasn’t usually much of a hitter, even when he was a lot drunker than he was tonight, but drunk or sober, that was the kind of language that would get a kid popped in the mouth. It was almost a parent’s job at that point.

Once again, the horrifying realization leapt out at Xander from a dark corner of his brain. He was almost a parent! With a girl he could be killed or thrown in jail for even talking to. Which pretty much meant that he was breaking up with Willow, only without any way of letting her know about it before him and Cordelia were pretty officially and really, really secretly back together. Xander might not have been a genius, but you didn’t have to be to see that this was going nowhere anyone wanted to be. In fact, he thought, there was a pretty good chance of someone taking a swing at him with an ax before it was all over with. That was assuming he wasn’t already in jail for murder by the time Willow got out. Murder. Oh Jesus Christ! And then there was the scary part. The part where he was almost a parent. A father.

Xander’s own parents were still in his face, his father shouting, his mother crying. At least his dad had given up on popping him in the mouth after the first try. The old Harris follow through(!) Xander turned back in the direction of the open basement door. “I’m going to bed now,” he said, “I’ve got school tomorrow.” His parents screamed and railed at him to stop, but when he left them there, screaming and railing, they didn’t follow. He laid down on his bed without getting undressed and covered his head with a pillow. It didn’t do a lot of good. They went back to screaming at each other, as if he had never interrupted them.

****

At three a.m., in the microscopic town of Persephone (rhymes with Autobahn) Arizona, Doug parked the white Ford around back of the Persephone Sports Medicine Clinic. The place didn’t open until ten, but all things considered, he knew they needed to be gone by sunrise. There was an alarm on the back door but nothing to stop them from breaking the window right next to it. No motion detectors.

Doug jabbed the butt of a flashlight through the glass, undid the latch and helped Faith inside. She cursed loudly for the second or so that she had no choice but to put weight on her legs, until Doug scooped her back into his arms and went searching for the X-Ray machine and the good drugs. He found one but not the other.

“You’re not pregnant are you?” he asked.

“I fucking hope not,” Faith said.

“What the hell kind of answer is that?” Doug demanded impatiently. “You think we’ve got all fucking night to play games?”

“I haven’t screwed anybody since I got my period, alright?” she all but snarled. “How can they not have any fucking drugs in this place?”

“There’s a pharmacy across the street,” Doug pointed out, “If push comes to shove we can hit it quick with the car running. I’d bet my ass _they_ do have motion detectors, even out here, but all we need is a bottle or two of Oxys or Hydros. Anyway, I know they gotta have some lidocaine around here at least. I just can’t find it. I wish I had the instructions for this fucking thing,” he added, glaring at the X-ray machine.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a doctor?” Faith groused.

“I’m not a radiologist,” Doug countered distractedly as he searched the cabinets for film and opened all the doors until he found the closet they were using to develop it. “Or an X-Ray tech. This is going to be a little bit trial and error. Fuck, let me just take a look first anyway.”

“You just want to get me out of this outfit,” Faith teased, trying to distract herself. She was in a lot of pain.

“Not necessary,” Doug said, ignoring the salacious implication, brandishing a pair of shears. “Hold still.” When he pulled Faith’s boots off, her feet were pale and cool. “Can you feel that?” he asked, rubbing her toes.

“Oh, you’re a foot guy, are ya Doug?” Faith persisted. Doug jabbed her right foot with the point of the shears, then her left, satisfied with the curses he got each time. It was no wonder her circulation had slowed a little. The leather clung so tightly to her swollen legs that he had to be damn careful to get the blade in without cutting her. It was tighter than was healthy all the way up come to that. Doug kept cutting, exposing her legs to mid-thigh, well above the huge swollen knots that seemed to make her shins into a second pair of knees. He ignored her commentary on that choice as well. It soon stopped. With increased circulation came increased pain. Faith lost her zest for banter.

Doug fiddled with the machine until he was pretty sure he had some usable pictures, then ransacked the place for drugs again while Faith smoked and wept silently and the film developed. “I found some Benzocaine cream and some instant compresses,” he said apologetically, coming back into the X-Ray room. Faith let him apply both without saying anything. It was better than nothing but not much.

“Fucking fucktastic!” Doug cursed when he got the pictures on the light box.

“You screwed up every Goddamned shot,” Faith guessed.

Doug shook his head. “They’re _healing_ ,” he said, grinning with wonder. “It’s like they were broken a week ago! It’s a damn good thing they were bound so tight or I’d have to rebreak them to get them to set right. I’m not even going to do casts he said decisively. I’m just going to splint them up tight and carry you. You’ll be back on your feet in twenty or thirty hours at this rate. Hell, probably faster now that you’ve got some circulation going again.”

“That must be part of it,” Faith mused quietly.

“Yeah, but part of what?” Doug agreed and grumbled at the same time, uneasy once again with the refusal of his daughter’s body to obey the normal laws of physics and biology.

Faith grinned, glad to be the one who knew things for once, then grimaced again with pain. “Part of being the Slayer,” she explained.

****

“You wanted to see me?” Davidson said pleasantly enough but with deep, patient gravity.

“No,” said his father’s first cousin, “I didn’t and I don’t. But this is more important than what I want.”

“I don’t supposed you’ve come to return those things which ought properly to be in my keeping?” Davidson asked knowing damn well what the answer was.

“The world turns,” Bernard said. “The stars are reeling overhead. I think they are safer away from the Six. Besides the threat of destruction, you can imagine what substance those arrogant bastards would make of these shadows.” After a moderate silence he added, “Or can you? Or would you even disagree?”

Davison arched an eyebrow mocking shock and expressing disdain for the implied accusation that he had lost himself in the roll of ‘Equal of the Inner Council’, a challenge Mr. Crowley had once leveled much more directly at his father. “What do you want me to do?” Davidson asked.

“Quit playing power games and Resend this damned Recommendation,” Crowley demanded.

“There aren’t four votes,” Davison informed him, “let alone five, which was the problem when we last voted two days ago if you must know.” There was no reason for his kinsman to know that there could have been five votes two days ago. It was not two days ago.

“Will you rise to prevent this… usurpation?” Crowley demanded.

“Is that what you really think it is?” Davidson challenged coolly.

Crowley studied him for a moment. “That depends,” he said finally. “Am I speaking to an Ezarian? Or a Watcher?”

****

“At last, he awakes!” Gronx all but sang. Ben groaned at the sound of her voice and would have cursed, but it seemed like too great an expense of energy. He was exhausted, worn out, wrung dry by Someone's nocturnal activities.

Twice in one week. Four times in a month. After almost a year without an incident. Just when he'd begun to imagine... Just when he'd been finding it easier to pretend... At least he was wearing one of Glory's nightgowns, which, though not pleasant in itself, meant that he had probably neither been seen publicly in a dress nor undressed by any of her pestilent minions. Like Gronx the disgustingly lustful, for example.

“Some breakfast, perhaps? Or dinner, if you prefer, Oh Boyishly-handson-yet-beoming-oh-so-becomingly-manly One...” the ghastly creature continued to blather as Ben cast a contemptuous eye around the hotel suite. It was plush but generic, the median best of anywhere, but not best enough for a major city like L.A. with hundreds of true luxury accommodations to choose from. For Glory, She of the insanely, crassly expensive taste, who could and happily did rely on tribute from her many worshipers to pay her bills, this place probably qualified as 'slumming it'. “...to refresh you after—”

“Where the hell am I, you scabby bitch?” Ben demanded harshly, cutting Gronx off in mid obsequy, both because he actually felt wronged and entitled and because that was the kind of treatment to which these things responded best anyway.

She seemed uncertain and perhaps slightly nervous, not about their location (to which she was indifferent as always) but about his reaction to it. “Oh... um... bird...something? Thunderbird, Firebird, something like that. Phoenix! Yes, yes, Phoenix, that was it.” She seemed pleased with herself, and for a moment relieved. Only for a moment. Ben was not happy with the information he had commanded from her. He was aghast.

“Phoenix, _Arizona_!?!” he railed. “God-damn-all-gods-and-demons!” Then, his tone suddenly calmer, a more restrained, _resigned_ species of incredulous, “I'm in Arizona? Of course I'm in Arizona(!)”

“So it would appear,” said Gronx in her unnervingly philosophical way, not too bothered by his angst as long as he was prepared to be sufficiently calm about it.

Ben sat back down on the bed with an exasperated sigh, trying to think. “Okay, Phoenix is what? Five, six hours from UCLA? Did I miss...? Is it Tuesday or still Monday?”

“Well...” Gronx looked extremely uncomfortable.

“Wednesday!?!” Ben demanded, becoming angry again.

“Well... it's, well at least slightly, to some degree, starting to be... Friday,” Gronx admitted, her sharp eyes darting over his beautiful hands, alert for the presence of objects that she might need to dodge in the near future.

“Four days,” he grumbled. “I've been gone for four days.” He had had episodes this long before, though not many and not for a very long time. “Fine. So I missed a week of classes. And one make-up Midterm. Damn. Alright. I'll just have to go to Dr. Parks...” Gronx was giving him that queasy look again. “What!?!” He demanded.

“Well...” She _quailed,_ she really did. Ben's gaze sharpened, all his senses primed for bad news, the only kind he ever got from any of these things. This time was no exception. “Not so much four days as... eighteen?” She ducked just a little though he had nothing in his hands. 

Ben took a moment to absorb this. That was it. He was going to be kicked out of med-school. Maybe he already had been. He'd already been warned once about his spotty attendance. And his GPA was nothing to brag about anyway since Glory had ruined finals week his very first semester. Finals for this semester were supposed to start in two weeks. There was no way.

“It's not fair!” Ben declared sullenly. “This is all _Her_ fault.” 

****

“Here,” Doug said, thrusting the motel key into Faith’s grasping hand and getting behind the wheel.

“The second fucking floor?” she demanded, looking at the room number. “Doug, you’re fuckin’ killin’ me here.”

“Stop, bitching,” he warned. “I’m the one who has to carry you. It was all they had. We’re lucky they even let us check in this time of the morning.”

No power in Earth or Hell could have compelled him to explain that there was actually a single, which is to say one double bed, smoking room available on the ground floor. Doug thought he was getting to know Faith, and he was pretty sure she was all talk on the subject of incest and in too much pain to want to do anything about it even if she wasn’t, but there was no sense taking reckless chances, even of misunderstandings or hurt feelings. Besides, he knew himself pretty well too.

Faith’s medical condition alone was enough to make separate sleeping places a necessity rather than a luxury anyway. She was in enough pain without being bumped against in the middle of the night, or the day they were hoping to use for one. Doug was giving her as much medication as he dared, as much as he would have prescribed to a patient whose priorities were killing the pain and staying alive just a little bit longer, in that order. Still she suffered and remained lucid. Her metabolism baffled him. Given the amount of cell division that had to be going on in her rapidly healing legs, she should have been exhausted and ravenous, but she was merely tired and hungry.

Carrying a hundred and something pound girl up a full flight of stairs is actually a little harder than Clark Gable makes it look, but Doug got the job done. He had sense enough to let her unlock the door so he wouldn’t have to waste a hand. He thought he deposited her on the bed pretty gently, but she cursed at him anyway and he actually had to dodge a couple of blows that, if they had landed would have left him seriously dead.

She was lucid, but not sober by any means, and no paragon of restraint regardless. “Chill the fuck out,” Doug suggested, from a relatively safe distance, rattled, trying to shake the image of Lennette’s pulverized remains from his brain. He was lighting himself a cigarette almost before he knew he had the pack in his hands. This was not a smoking room, but he honestly didn’t give a flying fuck.

“Give me one of those,” Faith demanded crossly.

Doug tossed her the pack and the lighter and went to take a shower both because he needed one and to get away from her. But the thought of taking off his dirty clothes made Doug acutely aware that he had no clean clothes. The thought of trying to sleep in what he had on; however, was frankly appalling. Even after thirty hours of pretty rough wear, his underpants were the cleanest thing he had on. His baggy gray pants had been pissed in by another man and his even baggier brown shirt stank of sweat and blood. There was broken glass in all of it. But the towels here were thin and cheap, hardly big enough to wrap up in.

Cursing, Doug left the bathroom and walked back down to the car. Besides a sack full of nutritionally dubious snack foods, he brought up some medical supplies he’d pinched from the clinic in Persephone. When Faith asked for an explanation for his comings and goings, he offered her food instead. The plan now firmly settled in his mind, Doug relaxed a little at last, piled his project supplies on the bathroom counter, dumped his nasty clothes on the floor and turned the shower to hot.

He washed away all of the blood and sweat and broken glass but only a little of the death and fear and chaos. For the first time in over twenty-four hours, he was able to think, not just react. His mind recoiled from its own objective assessment of his circumstances. The world was melting around him. It had melted. Everything he had been running from his whole life had caught up. Dr. Ericson had evaporated like steam and everything he’d accumulated: money, respect, basic physical security was washed down the drain. Doug was Doug again, as ever and always, completely fucked.

‘All right,’ Douglas said to himself. ‘This is your life. Suck it up.’

****

“This is going to work out to our advantage,” Spike assured Harmony confidently.

She gave him a doubtful look, a look he had been seeing more and more of lately. “Didn’t we come here to get _away_ from Buffy?” she asked.

Spike laughed. “She’ll be on her way home in a few days,” he predicted grinning. “And in the meantime, she is going to thin out the competition for us. By sunrise, this city will be ours for the taking, all thanks to Buffy Summers.”

Harmony still seemed to have her doubts. Spike didn’t care. She’d see soon enough. What was about to happen was inevitable, or to be more accurate, like the events that made up all good tragedies, it could easily be avoided, but without a doubt it would not be.

Their flight had landed in Paris on time. They’d been lucky. It was a four a.m. arrival. Less than two hours short of disastrous. Damn close timing for a transatlantic, but they had had little choice. Spike was in no shape for stealthily creeping about airline facilities, even now. He was blistered and pustulant, swollen and shuffling and clumsy. He had been burned red and black over nine tenths of his body. His face was only now beginning to peel and reveal (to Harmony’s intense relief) smooth new layers of unscarred skin.

They’d had to kill a couple of baggage handlers to get out of the cargo hold without alerting security, but they were hungry anyway. Spike and Harmony had blended into the crowd as best they could, evaded customs and headed for the nearest Metro station to spend the day. Then things had gotten interesting.

“Catacombs!” a bloodless passerby had hissed in Harmony’s ear, “trois hours!” Harmony had needed all three words explained to her, the last mainly because of the squashed way the undead Frenchman had said it.

Against his better judgment (which had by now pretty much given up on ever being listened to again) Spike had attended the meeting, with Harmony in tow. The atmosphere of tense, dangerous, active dread was unsettlingly familiar. Spike hung near the back and kept to the shadows, ordering Harmony to do the same as the crowd was harangued or cajoled (Spike’s imperfect French made it hard to tell the which) by a cocky little prick who seemed to fancy himself some sort of general.

Spike remained silent and let the little general run his meeting. Imperfect as it was, Spike’s French was not so bad as to conceal the main thrust of the poor blighter’s project. He had received an urgent call from a friend in London. There was a once in an unlifetime opportunity in the offing. A chance to do battle with, to defeat, to devour the Slayer.

“I still don’t understand what all this is about,” Harmony was still whining, hours later, as they sat in another metro station enjoying the breeze from the passing trains.

Spike grinned. “Cool-aid,” he said with grim amusement, knowing damn well she would have no clue what he meant. “It’s all about the Cool-aid.” Sun Tzu had said that the best way to win a war not to have to fight it. Clausewitz had said the best way was to crush the enemy forces in a single decisive victory. Now, thanks to Buffy, Spike got to do both, all in one go.

“Just trust me,” he said, in response to Harmony’s pouting. “By the time this is all over, we’ll be the bloody King and Queen of France.”

There it was, that damned doubtful look again.

“We will,” Spike insisted. “Within twenty-four hours this city will be ours for the taking. “I mean, once these bloody lemmings all clear out, who's going to be left to stand against us?”

****

Three obese older women perched on tiny wrought iron chairs around a tiny wrought iron table at a tiny sidewalk café along one of hundreds of broad, airy, tree-lined Paris streets. Their extravagant rolls of fat quivered obscenely with their slightest motions. Despite the cool and only partly sunny April morning, they wore garishly opaque mirrored sunglasses of the type designed to ward off the blinding L.A. sun. Americans, obviously, of the worst kind.

It seemed an odd trick of the light that the images of passersby were reflected in their gleaming shades while their own mountainous breasts, their pork-pie fingers and the doughy faces of their sisters were not. “Well, ladies,” said the fattest and by far the most smug of the three, shading her mouth with her hand as she spoke in a deep, almost masculine contralto, “I’d say that phase one testing is a complete success.”

“Not quite,” said the tall one critically. Her voice was somewhat more feminine though by no means high. “I can feel my energy draining, like being out in a never ending twilight. And even if I felt like moving, I don’t see how we could possibly feed in these things. I feel like I’m in a moon suit, lead boots and all.” She too shaded her mouth as she spoke.

“But we’re working on that,” argued the third sister from behind a small Japanese fan in a gravelly voice that could only have come from thirty or forty years of chain smoking. “These are still good for traveling in the daytime. And I bet we’ll start to feel better once we get inside someplace. Besides, in a pinch, even with the extra weight, even with a bad case of sun slump, the three of us together should still be more than a match for the average human, plus there are plenty of children and old people running around everywhere if we get really hungry.”

“They’ll do for what we need them for,” the smug, fat sister agreed. “And this is only the beginning,” she gloated. “Now it’s time for phase two.”

“But what, exactly, is phase two?” the tall sister demanded languidly.

“The very most indispensable aspect of any plan for technological development,” the fat sister replied superiorly.

“Research?” her gravelly voiced companion guessed.

She laughed. “No,” she corrected with obvious relish, “Fundraising. We’ll sell these first generation suits to as many suckers as we can get to fork over, for as much as we can get out of them and _then_ reinvest in research. This is only the beginning,” she went on gloating. “I already have plans to reduce the bulk and improve the efficiency of the cooling systems. And with that real skin thing you’re working on and Trina’s neural input processor, we’ll be able to produce a much more direct tactile experience of the daytime world. Do you know what that means?”

“We’ll be able to kill just as well by day or by night,” Trina answered with satisfaction.

“We’ll be able to _enjoy_ killing just as well by day or by night,” Chris added with relish.

“It _means_ we’ll be richer than God,” Warren clarified triumphantly. “And twice as powerful! Every vampire in the world is going to want this technology. They’ll come crawling on their hands and knees begging for it. They will have no choice but to throw themselves at my feet. I am the master of the Sun! There is no way into the light but through me!”

Trina might have shrugged. It was hard to tell. “Through us, you mean,” Chris corrected him earnestly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Warren agreed, “Of course. That’s what I meant. Through us.”

****

Faith waited a long time after she heard the shower stop for Doug to emerge. She was in danger of falling asleep. Which she figured was what he was waiting for. But no way was she going to pass up the chance to laugh at his embarrassed ass in a towel.

Faith wasn’t a child She knew when a guy wanted to fuck her. Which was pretty much always. She didn’t think it was _unreasonably_ sadistic, considering, to have a little bit of fun reminding the white sheep of the family that maybe he wasn’t so fucking pure after all. Not that either them ever thought that in a million years there was the tiniest chance that anything could actually _happen_. She just liked to watch him squirm.

But when Doug came out, he wasn’t wearing a towel. In fact, Faith had to do a double take to see exactly what it was that was off about what he was wearing. What looked at first glance like a white T-shirt was actually the front and back of a shirt cut out flat from a bed sheet an taped up the sides with seams of white cloth tape of the kind used with gauze bandages. What looked like sweat pants were similarly constructed from a blanket.

He handed Faith a soap dish and said, “Ash tray.”

“You look wicked stupid,” Faith said with a grin.

“Bullshit,” said Doug, smiling back broadly, lighting himself another smoke. “I look like a fucking genius.”

 


	18. Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of calculating going on here. "But they're bad calculations, bad!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part III: Where the Heart Is
> 
> FRIENDLY REMINDER: Opinions expressed by characters, even by original characters, do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the author, and in this chapter they really, really don't. 
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains explicit references to acts of cannibalism involving real people and not fictional characters.
> 
> STILL FEELING THE NEED TO APOLOGIZE: I have nothing but respect and admiration for the victims and survivors of the 1972 crash of Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571, most especially Roberto Canessa and Nando Parrado, who make me proud to be a human being.

London, U.K., April 17, 1998

 

Buffy tried to be as happy, as relieved even, as she knew Giles was. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was bound to go wrong, that the universe could not have turned so much in their favor so quickly. That there was no way letting a woman get killed by a vampire right in front of her could possibly turn out to be a good thing. She wanted to call her mom, to tell her that she was miserable and scared. To cry into the phone and say she wanted to come home. But it was nearly three a.m. in Sunnydale. Besides, it wasn’t fair to tell a mom how much you hurt, how much you needed her, when you knew there was nothing she could do.

Having Andrew in the house certainly wasn’t helping her mood any. He had gone into his study and closed the door rather than endure her _wanting_ to ask him what was wrong, feeling like she should, even though she knew he didn’t want her to. She couldn’t see or hear him anymore, but she could still feel him in there. Moping. Hurting. Being miserable.

Even if he was just feeling sorry for himself for being out maneuvered (and somehow it didn’t seem like that, exactly) emotional vulnerability was not a quality Buffy liked to have to deal with in an enemy. Besides, enemies was not what she wanted to be with someone in her own family, someone who was, like it or not, a fourth of what made up the tiny baby who was growing inside her and half of the man she loved. More than half, she realized with a sudden stab of anger. He had given him half his genes and ninety percent of his scars.

Before she could think any differently about it, Buffy strode right down the hall to Andrew’s study and opened the door. He had Helena’s album out staring at the empty place where the picture of Giles and whoever it was had been removed. He was drinking a tall glass of Scotch, probably not his first by now, and still shedding silent tears.

“You’re hurting him,” Buffy said, when he looked up and met her eyes. “You’re obviously not doing yourself a whole hell of a lot of good either.”

He looked back down at the black velvet void. “He hasn’t asked Virgil about it, has he?” he asked hoarsely.

Buffy almost asked what Gaudencio had to do with it, then caught her breath as she figured it out on her own. “No, I don’t think so,” she said as coolly as she could manage, making a mental note to do exactly that, hopefully at this party they had to have tonight, if he was still planning to show. Andrew had obviously known Virgil well enough at every stage of his life not to realize that others would not recognize his seventy-something-year-old colleague (among all the possible suspects) in the face of a twenty-something Watcher. For that if nothing else this conversation had been worthwhile.

But Andrew Giles knew damn well everything his son needed to know. He had no right to keep it from him and Buffy told him so. “People deserve to know the truth about who they are, about where they come from,” she concluded earnestly, thinking of her own child as well as her husband, “even if it sucks. Somehow I have trouble believing _you_ don’t understand that. How can you act this way towards your own son?

“I mean, alright, he’s done some pretty terrible things that nobody could possibly approve of. I do actually get that. But how do you not know that all of that probably never would have happened if you hadn’t treated him like crap since the day he was born? And for what? Just because he was an accident?”

Andrew laughed bitterly, drying his eyes at last. “Oh, 'twas no accident,” he said quietly. “No, I assure you, we intended the natural and probable consequences of our voluntary acts. I really have very little patience with people who claim that they don’t. Always have had. Rupert’s birth was a free and deliberate choice made by two competent young people. A very foolish choice, but a choice.”

Buffy almost literally had to bite her tongue, but she was quiet and let him speak. She wasn’t going to get any details by flogging him with her righteous anger. She might by letting him ramble, especially now that he was a little more drunk. She smiled a little, but only on the inside. Maybe she could learn to be a Giles after all. “Did you ever hear the story of the Uruguayan rugby team that crashed in the Andes?”Andrew asked. Okay, now _that_ was some quality rambling!

Buffy scrunched up her face involuntarily. “I saw the movie,” she said. She knew she was supposed to have found it uplifting. The trailers and the reviews had told her so. But it’s hard to be uplifted when you’re busy being grossed out.

“Bah!” Andrew said disgustedly, waving his hand contemptuously as if brushing invisible garbage off his desk. “Catholic Symbolist trash!” He declared. “Everything I hate about fiction, all the worse for its pretending not to be. All broad thematic gesturing without the facts. Facts are not the enemies of truth, My Dear. They are the components of it, as bricks are to walls and trees are to forests. All else is sophistry.

“At its most basic, you see, the story of that crash is not about faith or friendship or even about cannibalism. It’s about a little trick pilots like to call ‘dead reckoning.’

“When you are flying at night, or in bad weather, or simply up above the clouds, you see, you can’t always see the ground. Of course, an airplane, unlike a car, cannot tell you from how many times you turn the wheels over how many miles you’ve gone. So you ‘do the math’, you calculate, you ‘reckon.’ You know that it should take you X hours to fly from London to Berlin under Y conditions, so when you’ve flown X hours under Y conditions you presume that you are over Berlin and you behave accordingly.”

Buffy wasn’t quite following what this had to do with the guys from Uruguay never mind Giles. Andrew had flown off and left her behind. He swooped back and picked her up again when he said, “Of course, if you did the math wrong, if you didn’t adjust for conditions Y + a strong headwind for example, if in fact when you thought you were over Berlin, you were actually over Switzerland… Well now, that could prove… decidedly unfortunate.”

It was like the rhythm method of flying, Buffy decided. By applying basic math to what you did know, you could make an educated guess at what you didn’t know. But if you relied too heavily on not enough information... It'd be a great way to end up some place you didn’t want to be.

Andrew was quiet for a moment. He drained his Scotch, lit his pipe and smoked a little. “It matters so very much in life, you see,” he continued quietly, urgently, “not only where you are, but where you _think_ you are. These Uruguayan boys, these young people in their teens and twenties, believed that they had crashed in Chile, that death lay peak on jagged peak behind them, to the East, while life and hope lay just a mountain or two before them to the West. They believed this in spite of the evidence of their own senses, in spite of the facts. The valley that surrounded their crash site opened to the East, not to the West. Their altimeter told them they were higher in the mountains than they ‘knew’ they were. And then too, there was the fact of the crash itself, which might have told them they were not where they were meant to have been.

“Those boys believed they were in Chile for one, very understandable, reason. Someone older, presumably wiser, someone who ought to have known, had told them so. By dead reckoning, you see, the pilot had determined that they had flown the length of the Pass of Planchan, that they had put the Andes behind them. When his calculations told him that he had passed the town of Curicó, leaving naught but green valleys between them and the Santiago Airport, he turned north and descended through the clouds, and straight into the side of a mountain. His reckoning was dead wrong and twenty-nine people are now dead because of it, ten or eleven of them for no other reason than because they believed his dying words, ‘We passed Curicó’.

“They were not where they thought they were, not by a long chalk. For seventy-two days, they were not where they thought they were. Days in which they descended to ever deeper levels of deprivation and depravity. Days they subsisted on a bite of chocolate. Days they starved and had nothing! Days they _fed_ of the _flesh_ of _their own dead_!!! _Days They Cracked Men’s Skulls Open With Axes And Made_ Soup _From Their_ Brains!!! FRIENDS OF THEIRS!!! PEOPLE THEY—” Andrews voice broke. Or maybe he was only stunned into silence by the sound of his own shouting. He fumbled with his pipe, his hands shaking, gripping it and pulling on it as if he wished he had a cigarette instead.

“Five miles to the East of the wreck,” he went on at last, his voice calmer, but not calm, quieter, at first, then gradually climbing again, becoming once again unsteady, “if they had walked down the valley, the way their own eyes told them to, if they had been given no advise, if they had known better than to listen to their elders when their bloody advise made no _goddamned sense_!!! They would have come to a hotel, locked and boarded up for winter, but fully stocked with canned goods!”

“Oh my God!” Buffy gasped, unable to help herself. Andrew was so wrapped up in his story that he hardly heard her. He certainly did not watch or listen to her closely enough to guess that what she was mainly thinking was, ‘How on Earth can you compare this to that?’ With every word he said, she was more appalled by his refusal to see his son’s birth as ultimately a good thing. _Especially_ in light of his own assertion that it had been a deliberate, premeditated choice on his part, regardless of who’s advice he should or should not have taken. His tacit plea of youthful error did not impress Buffy. He was twenty-five years older than Giles. Way old enough to know better if there was a better to know.

“He kept saying it, you see,” Andrew tried to explain, his eyes shining, his voice grasping at the young woman who was slipping away from him. “Over and over again, between crying from thirst and begging for his pistol to blow his brains out! ‘We passed Curicó! We _passed_ Curicó!’ And this endless repetition, this haunted plea for what should have been to be, they took for mere insistence, for evidence of certainty. ‘We passed Curicó!’ this felled wreckage of a man cried, ‘We passed Curicó!’ And those poor children believed him!”

Andrew’s voice sank from a shout to a whisper again. “'We _passed_ Curicó!'” he lamented, quite as if that sorrow were his own. “'We _passed_ Curicó!' 'We _passed_ Curicó!' Young people do not speak the language of regret.”

Andrew fell silent. Buffy was staring at him aghast. He hung his head. He couldn’t make her understand. He hardly knew what he had been about in trying. He should drink less, he realized, in the presence of his enemies. If that was what they were. He hardly knew anymore. He hardly knew what conflict they were engaged in, let alone what his mission was. He had no idea what mattered, no concept let alone hope of victory.

Quite apart from what happened to him as a result, Andrew hardly knew if he wished his son happily married or safely dead. But oh how he hated him for seeing that the former might be possible! For looking flat in the face of a mountain that could not be climbed and climbing it anyway! After forty-seven years of torment, after the things he had done to survive in the badlands ‘east of Eden’, it was a hard thing, Andrew thought, to be made to realize that the angels with their flaming swords need never have been an obstacle to him, that his life had actually crashed five miles _west_ of paradise, that he had let blinder fools than himself lead him in the opposite direction, deeper into hell.

****

“Dear God! Are you sure?” Robson demanded. Giles put down his guitar and met his worried gaze, just as worriedly. Robson dropped his eyes and lowered his voice. “No, as a matter of fact, it isn’t,” he said into the phone. … “Yes you’re exactly right.” … “Yes. I think that would be wise.” … “I shall, just as soon as—I have the opportunity.” … “Quite right.”

“What’s gone wrong?” Giles asked gravely as the receiver was replaced. He stared Robson down, hoping to be wrong, but also longing to preempt whatever it was Robson had just agreed to do as soon as Giles could be gotten rid of. Robson seemed undecided for a moment. “Please,” Rupert pleaded, “Tell me.” It hurt him to plead. It was a loss of dignity, but he did it without reservation.

“That was my brother James,” Robson lied, wishing what he had to say next could be untrue as well. “Julian has let it be known that he is instructing our House against you, and he is meeting no resistance from the other members of my family. I don’t believe I can command a single vote in your favor, neither my brother’s nor my son’s nor anyone else’s.”

“Dear God!” Giles gasped. The Hippolytons, Flavians and Sterlings alone amounted to fifty-seven votes. A bare majority of the Outer Council. If Milton himself had turned against them, as his failure after active consideration, to bribe Julian and Laura seemed to indicate, that added another twelve. Not even the combination of total solidarity in the other four Houses with modest defections in those three could secure victory. At this point, they were in a position to reasonably expect neither. A vote to Resend was out of the question.

“What am I going to do?” Giles whispered, his head in his hands. “I keep thinking of—” _Dark hair. Pale skin. Green eyes staring into nothing._ “God, what have I done?!”

“Let’s get through tonight,” Robson advised. “Let Milton say his piece and show his hand. He obviously has some reason for insisting that this… soirée go ahead as planned. At all events, I think it would be a mistake to react without seeing what he is up to. There may be some wrinkle to this that we don’t yet see.”

“And if not?” Giles asked.

“Well, if not,” said Robson grimly, determinedly, “If we can’t get fifty-six votes, perhaps we had better see if we can still get three.”

****

The minute he got off the phone with Phillip Robson, Peter called Andrew Giles’ flat. He didn’t want to give either of the Gileses time to process what was happening, figure out what he was likely to do and interfere. As he had hoped, Buffy answered the phone herself. “I need to see you right away,” Peter said grimly. “Meet me at Piccadilly Station. Come at once. Come alone.”

“What? Why can’t you come here?” Buffy asked, disgruntled by his ominous and commanding tone, already cross from having to listen to Andrew rant and rave for half the morning.

“I am your Watcher,” Peter reminded her sternly, “Am I not?” He had never spoken to her quite this way before. “You told me once that you understood what that meant, that you were ‘on board.’ Is that not still true?”

Buffy knew what Giles would have advised her to say. “Yeah,” she said, trying to sound humble and in no way resentful. “You’re the boss.”

“Then come at once,” Peter repeated. “And come alone.” Peter replaced the receiver without waiting for a response, hoping to project confidence in her compliance, to make her feel that the matter was settled beyond all thought of rebellion. If such a thing were possible with her.

“So you’ve heard.” Peter spun on his heals to find Quentin standing very close behind him.

“I thought you were downstairs,” he said, discomfited as usual not only by his father’s ability to sneak up on him but his willingness to intrude and his calculation of when his business was likely to be worth intruding upon.

“I have to speak with you,” Quentin said, bluntly. “There are things you need to know.” His tone was calm and authoritative, but at the same time very weary and deeply displeased.

“I need to talk to my Slayer,” Peter informed him, sounding calm and authoritative right back. “It will have to wait until I get back.” He turned and took a step towards the bedroom door reaching for his coat.

“Sit down.” Quentin ordered grimly, closing the door. Peter sat.

He had some idea, of course, of what his father was about to tell him: his own reasons both for originally supporting Mr. Giles’ Striking and for changing his position, his own ideas about what to do in the face of its renewed inevitability. Peter had too much respect not to hear his father out when he had so insisted, but he had too clear an idea of the character of the man he was dealing with to be governed or persuaded by him without very careful and critical consideration of what he had to say and why he was choosing to say it. However he had gotten into the position, Peter Travers, not his father, was Primary. He had no right to place anything or anyone above the faithful discharge of that office. That much at least, his father had taught him.

“Everything that I have ever meant to do with my life has now ended in disgrace and disaster,” Quentin said quietly. Every detail, every nuance of his tone and expression said that he considered this to be a sober, carefully measured assessment of the facts of the matter. Peter was inclined to accept that as true. His father could occasionally wax a bit dramatic regarding such subjects as duty and honor and fate. He could get over-pumped and grandiose with pride in his own wisdom and importance and even in his ‘pragmatism’. But self-pity and negative exaggeration were not his style. Peter waited for him to explain.

“I’m being compelled to resign from the Council,” Quentin said evenly, “and to have no more to do with any business regarding any Slayer or Watcher in any way related to the performance of their duties, yourself most especially included.”

“Good Lord!” Peter exclaimed, appalled. He stopped himself short of asking his father what he had done to deserve such a fate. He’d tell him only what and when he wanted him to know in any case. “How soon?” he asked instead.

“Yesterday I’d have said May or June,” Quentin explained. “Thus I was instructed when my five colleagues levied their conditions for failing to second Dunstan's motion to have me Stricken.” Peter was shocked but he was now sufficiently in a state of expectation of shock to avoid making any comment. He listened with patient dread and regret.

“But events are advancing rapidly,” Quentin continued. “I won’t burden you with the knowledge of precisely what I’ve done; I want you to be able to answer honestly that you had no part in it. Suffice it to say that the moment I had reached an agreement to avoid being Stricken I was in violation of it. Blood has been shed, oaths and protocols broken. Revelations may be expected at any time. ”

Peter took a deep breath. He chose not to express his anger. He knew his father was in a great deal more pain than his pride would allow him to show. The Council, its work, its traditions, his place and his family’s place within it: these were the only things in the world, besides perhaps the family themselves, that mattered to Quentin Travers. Peter had difficulty understanding how such an intelligent man could manage to repeatedly and ever more thoroughly squander the trust and respect of the one tiny sliver of humanity whose opinions were of any consequence to him, how (having set the Law of the Council above that of both God and England) he could nevertheless continue to transgress it.

But then, he supposed, that was where his arrogance came into it. It was a condition he’d evidently been born with, but his having risen to so high a position (the highest on Earth in his world view even if only one of several Equally highest) couldn’t help but to have aggravated it. For an instant, Peter had the terrible thought that he was glad his grandfather wasn’t alive to see this. He recalled the old man’s deep, quiet, stoically born suffering in the years following the Font Affair and his staunch defense of his son if not his son’s actions, no mean feat considering his simultaneous refusal to condemn Rupert Giles as having exceeded Quentin's instructions. Not for the first time, Peter wondered how the son of such a man could be so lacking in humility and self-restraint.

It was evident that Peter wasn’t going to say anything. Quentin resisted the impulse to drop his gaze. He’d been angry and afraid from the moment his deception of Virgil had seemed likely to come to light, but it was the contemplation of disgracing his son, even privately, in his own mind, that made him feel truly ashamed for the first time. It humiliated him to think that Peter was thinking of him in much the same way he had recently come to think of his own father. As much as he regretted it, Quentin knew he needed to prepare his son for the possibility of that revelation as well.

“One of the reasons I must tell you this _now_ ,” Quentin explained, “is that I shall have to stand if necessary to prevent Rupert from being Stricken.” Peter studied his father for a moment. It was clear he had more to say, but he seemed to be hoping to be interrupted. Whatever it was must be extremely unpleasant even in comparison to what had already been said. It was not like him to be hesitant in anything.

“Why?” Peter prompted at last. They both knew it was not for the same reasons that he might have stood in his father's place.

“He is in possession of information about our family which I would see suppressed at all costs,” said Quentin gravely. “That is why both Andrew and I have suddenly found ourselves championing his cause will we or no. The information concerns…” Quentin made a disgusted expression, “our father.” Peter was not particularly shocked by the revelation itself. He’d always had his suspicions. But he had the uneasy sense that there was bound to be more to it than that. “There is a risk that Dunstan may possess the same information,” Quentin soon confirmed, “though he was vague enough about it that he may only be bluffing. Rupert, however, certainly has proof enough.

“There are documents,” Quentin went on explaining, still avoiding the heart of the matter, “quite authentic, quite voluminous, much too elaborate for any sensible forger. _I_ thought him better than that. Detailed, long running, in his own hand in his own diction and idiom, yet… more… _emotional_ than anyone would have written in conscious imitation of him, too… perfectly imperfect to be disbelieved. Just _look_ at this!” he complained, shoving a crumpled document into his son’s hands, “the confession itself we could potentially discredit if it weren’t for these sorts of casual references peppered throughout the whole journal.”

Not sure what to think, Peter hurriedly read through the scant page of photocopied script.

It was a journal entry dated, 4 July, 1925, which read:

_Anthony Giles came to my house this afternoon and asked me to take a walk in the garden with him to discuss ‘some extremely serious and urgent business.’ Of course I was not surprised to learn that Helena’s pregnancy was to be the topic of our discussion, but I was extremely shocked to learn that he is, on the whole, quite pleased with the situation! Evidently, Helena shared her original plan with him and had his approval from the beginning! Evidently, she has sworn to him that it was carried out just as she’d intended, though I got the distinct impression that he did not actually believe that to be the case. Never-the-less he THANKED me on behalf of the whole family and assured me that nothing more is expected of me beyond my discretion. I cannot describe the superlative combination of horror and relief I felt at being sincerely thanked and congratulated by my distinguished kinsman for the rape and ruin of his only child! I told him I appreciated his kind words, but that I shouldn’t be at all surprised if this grand scheme were to backfire on the lot of us and open up wonderful new opportunities for all the Robsons and Crownes of the world._

_He became a bit perturbed when I told him that Myrna had become aware of Helena’s pregnancy and how. He pointed out that Watchers of all people ought to know better than to discuss a sensitive subject in the presence of a child, which is true of course. In the end however, he agreed with me that Myrna was hardly likely to want anyone to know. When I asked what he thought his wife would do in Myrna’s place, he laughed and said ‘forty to life’ which I found much too close to the truth to be all that amusing. He assured me, a little apologetically, and quite without evidence, that my marital difficulties are bound to ‘sort themselves out’ in time._

_Marital troubles notwithstanding, I really ought to count my blessings. I seem to have gotten clean away with a terrible crime for which I could easily be doing forty years hard labor myself. Helena and I remain on speaking terms. My reputation is intact. My career is secure. I have five healthy, beautiful children and the worst that could possibly come of there all being born female is that my uncle or my cousin may be seated on the Inner Council instead of myself. If the Gileses are right in their perception of this changing modern world, it may not even come to that. I could never approve of one of my girls doing what Helena has done, but her idea of a line being passed from aunt to niece (or nephew) is an attractive possibility. In either case, God has been better to me than I deserve and I truly thank him. From this day forward, I will strive to live my life so as to merit my good fortune._

“I don’t believe this!” Peter stammered, though suddenly, horribly he did.

“The… confession itself is… embarrassingly detailed,” Quentin confirmed distastefully. “It becomes… comparative. In fact I doubt very much if Rupert himself has any desire to see these facts spread abroad, particularly as these same documents rather starkly illuminate the fact that he comes by his talent as a blackmailer quite honestly. But I have no doubt he would be willing to endure it in this extremity.”

Peter nodded grimly. He feared it was quite literally true that Rupert and Buffy would do anything to be together. “How soon and how publicly are your own… actions likely to come to light?” he asked.

“As there is no one to inform my operatives that they should be reporting to anyone but me,” Quentin replied, “It’s possible we may get through Monday’s session before anyone on the Permanent Staff or the Inner Council finds out. If they are uniformly discrete… the Outer Council may never know _exactly_ what went on unless or until it does come to a vote to Strike.”

Quentin looked his son very firmly in the eye and added, “Which I have already decided, it shall not.”

Peter felt as though he’s been kicked in the stomach. He wished he any real hope that he’d misunderstood. But Quentin was not finished. “Without me to bully or punish,” he confirmed, “Rupert will have very little motive to disclose his information and the Council almost as little to report what I have done. I’ve given some thought to what being Stricken might be like, what it would do to your mother—”

“Mother would sooner die herself than bury you!” Peter countered fiercely, losing his temper at last. “Don’t you dare lay this off on Mother! And don’t you dare dump all of this on me and then conveniently excuse yourself from having to live with it either! If these things come out, then they come out! If you are Stricken, then be Stricken! If I’m never Seated, so be it! I don’t have your ambitions! I care about the Council only and exactly so far as it is able to do its job of guiding and protecting the Slayer! Speaking of which, I have to get to Piccadilly Station and have much too much of this same conversation with a seventeen-year-old child whom you have deliberately put in mortal danger for pride and spite!

“ _Suicide_!” Peter sneered, “My God! With all pretense of nobility! Your _embarrassed_ is what you are! You’ve been caught misbehaving! Bloody Hell! Grow up!” Ignoring his father’s indignant protests and shouted orders, Peter let his anger carry him out of the house and up the street to the nearest underground station. But his hands trembled with fear as he stood on the platform and fumbled in his coat pocket for his mobile phone to call his mother.

****

Joyce awoke in Brian’s arms feeling strangely sad, strangely alone. And very familiarly worried. It was four a.m. Slowly, she tried to disentangle herself without waking her sleeping… whatever he was. But he groaned and rolled over and sat up. “Where are you going?” he asked sleepily. He groaned again when she told him she was calling Buffy and pointed out the time just as if he somehow thought she hadn’t noticed it.

“It’s noon in London,” Joyce reminded him. She got up (leaving him pulling a pillow over his head) and went downstairs. She stood in the kitchen and dialed the eleven digit number Buffy had given her. Her chest was tight the whole time the phone was ringing. She knew there was something wrong.

“Giles residence, Mr. Giles speaking,” said a voice similar to but not the same as Rupert’s with the same well-educated British accent but a stiffer, cooler tone. Joyce introduced herself politely but just as coolly. She neither accepted nor rejected Rupert’s version of his history with his father, but wherever the original fault lay, it was clear that Andrew had been needlessly unkind, even aggressive towards Buffy.

“She’s gone out,” he said when Joyce asked to speak to her daughter, sounding grimly amused. She didn’t like in the least how he said it, but “Somewhere with her Watcher,” was all of the elaboration she could pry out of him. He was at least as terse about how things were going with the Council, seeming to resent that she should be in a position to ask. But the overall tenor of his grudging comment suggested grounds for guarded optimism. With a sigh, her courtesy only a little strained, Joyce hung up.

No sooner had Andrew finally gotten the Slayer’s intrusive over/under-informed mother off the line than he was telephonically accosted by yet another American, this one wanting to speak to his son. It was a man his own age or older from the sound of him, who (with typical American presumption) refused to state his business and yet expected Andrew to relay the news of his call as if he were Rupert’s personal secretary. “Look here, Mr. Wallace,” he said, losing patience, “My son is not at home nor expected to be home for any length of time either today or this evening. If I may not know your business, you shall simply have to try to catch him tomorrow.”

“You look here you old— _gentleman_ ,” Wallace countered, getting impatient himself. “I don’t know where you stand in all this except that Rupert trusts you even less than I trust him. And I will call back, you can bet on that, but if you happen to give a rat’s ass if your son lives or dies, tell him all hell is breaking lose over here and he needs to call me ASAP.” With that, the old man hung up the phone. Andrew cursed. He had no idea what this Wallace person did or didn’t know about the Council, the Proceeding, the Hellmouth or anything else. He had no way of judging the importance or urgency of his business. There was nothing for it but to call Rupert.

He dialed Phillip Robson’s number. A Goddamned machine answered. He hung up without leaving a message and poured himself another drink. The truth was, whatever purportedly important business was happening on the other side of the Atlantic, Andrew knew all too well with whom he urgently needed to speak if he wanted his son and daughter-in-law to live, make peace with the Council and have the minuscule chance any pair of humans ever has to be happy. If whatever fly in the ointment Peter had discovered was as serious as Buffy’s hushed and hurried exit had suggested, if in fact the latest round of negations had fallen through... even if Robson were fool enough, Quentin desperate enough to stand, they still needed a third. If it wasn’t Milton Crowne, it could only be one other person. A person who would never listen to reason or anything else from him.

The worst part of being a murderer was being confronted with the misery of those one’s victim had left behind. The second worst part was incurring their unshakable enmity. Especially when they were in a position to do something about it, when they had the privilege of standing in the way of what one desperately needed and one could not even feel justified in hating them for it.

This time there wasn’t even a damned machine, just ring after ring after ring, which Andrew let go on much, much too long. The dread and regret he felt as each successive summons went unanswered left Andrew Giles horribly convinced of one brutally shocking fact. He was gripped by a species of desperation to which he had not succumbed in over forty years. Something some damned fool men or gods had long ago decided to call ‘love.’

****

“I’ve never understood,” said the wizard grimly to the woman in the mirror, “Why all of these spells have to be in Latin or Hebrew or Aramaic. Why can’t they ever be in English?”

Why can’t they indeed? English is an enormous and versatile language. It is stuffed with words, staffed with synonyms to fill cracks so small that you might not know they were there if not for the bright, exotic words sticking out. It is a language that flexes and stretches and remains full of surprises, even to the most educated and active of native speakers, even over the longest and most adventurous of lifetimes. There are over five hundred thousand unique words in the English language not including technical jargon and specialized terms of art for every pursuit and profession. Of those there are another six hundred thousand. And yet, the complete works of William Shakespeare, the foremost practitioner of the art of English composition, contain no more than twenty thousand unique words.

English is a feast of words to glut the most ravenous of appetites. It is massive, like a black hole, sucking in sound and meaning, stripping phonemes and morphemes from the orbits of other tongues, crushing and twisting and incorporating them into itself. Their futile resistance overcome, whole words submit to their new nation and fill the spaces English gives them to fill, meaning the things it needs them to mean. “Gung Ho” now connotes not cooperation but a hearty, active, individual enthusiasm. Greater and lesser degrees of “jeopardy” become possible, yet the sense of balance, inheres so that “jeopardy” supplements danger, hazard, peril, crisis, risk and vulnerability, replacing none of these.

“Poets, priests and politicians…” the wizard half-sang sardonically, pleased with himself, though he was insufficiently any of these things to weave his own magic out of the extraordinary reservoir of words available to him as a native English speaker rather than being trapped by the tongues of others.

English is a language of infinite choice. English words come in a variety of sizes and flavors, with a plethora of options for having it your way. You may choose on the basis of reason or for the purposes of rhyme. There are vast, deep, enveloping words like ‘Love’ that encompass oceans of various and complexly related meaning. There are tiny, persnickety little words like ‘mesothelioma’ that mean one thing very precisely and not one scintilla more, thank you very much. There are words that nest inside each other like Russian dolls: person, family, clan, tribe, nation, species, world. There are words that cluster together and rub up against each other trying to occupy the same space with a difference only of attitude: clique, crowd, group, gang, set, side, faction, granfaloon. There are words that illuminate the same subject matter from a thousand awkward angles making parts of it more or less real or essential to the core of its meaning or the fringes of its definition: gathering, social, soirée, cotillion, blowout, rave, rumpus, rally, coffee klatch.

And yet, vast and varied as it is, tempered, leavened, girded as it is with terms and phrases and expressions; the English language fails, it groans and gives, it buckles like Esperanto beneath the weight of the task it is taxed with performing. It is inadequate to the description, the elucidation, the definition, the labeling, the _articulation_ of human events, of all the feelings and actions and motivations and revelations and relationships that make up life as we, the speakers of language, actually experience it. There are not enough words, there are never enough words, there could never be enough words in all the languages of all the worlds to fill all of the gaps, to map nuance by nuance the contours of the universe.

Where words fail us we turn to numbers, another sort of expression between language and pure thought. We count on numbers to tell us the truth when words lie, to reveal what words leave hidden, to make things add up. Numbers are hard. They hold fast where words squish and splinter. Objective truth is all about the numbers.

The woman in the mirror smiled back. “But like Stalin said,” she mused, “‘Who’s counting?’”

****

“ _There_ you are,” Buffy said, turning as Peter approached, a stake in one hand, the other brushing ‘dust’ off her clothes before coming to rest on her hip. “I’ve been waiting here for half an hour.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, but he looked and sounded pissed. Buffy waited for him to explain the delay, but he didn’t. “Walk with me,” he said instead. “We have a great deal to discuss.”

Buffy put her stake back up her coat sleeve and followed him. They climbed to street level and walked a block in silence. “Julian and Milton have not come to terms,” Peter said quietly after a while. He did not look at her. “Only a veto can prevent Rupert from being Stricken and so far, only my father has committed to do that, though Robson surely will if he can be certain of a third, but without Milton’s support… You need to be prepared for the possibility. You need to think realistically about a supportable course of action.”

“I’m not leaving my husband,” Buffy informed him flatly, matter-of-factly, her anger tightly controlled. “He’s not leaving me. If the Council wants to punish us for that, you can find us at the Hellmouth, doing our jobs. With or without your help. Which if it was up to me is where we would be right now, but I’m trying it his way first.”

“If Rupert is Stricken and yet the Council have reason to believe he will remain in contact with the Slayer,” Peter informed her briskly, “he will be immediately taken into custody and held in Council Detention indefinitely.”

Buffy stopped and turned slowly to face Peter, looking him square in the eye in a way that made it impossible for him to look away. “No.” she said, her voice and eyes hard, fierce, “He won’t.”

“Let’s explore that idea, shall we?” Peter rejoined, his own eyes blazing. “What are you going to do? Kill us all? Die trying? Leave your husband no choice but to die trying or to feel he’s betrayed you? Do you or do you not love this man?”

For a moment Buffy was too angry to speak. Peter filled the silence. “Suppose you do kill us all, or enough to get out the front door alive. Do you think no one will notice? Do you think you can just catch a taxi to Heathrow and fly home after that? Are you going to kill the police when they come to arrest you? Perhaps you’ll take on the army after that, d’you think?”

Buffy shook her head. “I’m not threatening to _kill_ anybody,” she said bitterly. “I’m not threatening to quit the Council even. I’ll do anything _else_ you say. But I’m walking out of that meeting with Giles, whatever your votes add up to.”

****

Xander waited until sunrise. Waited not slept. He dozed some but not much. Whenever he nodded off, visions of blood and death quickly woke him. Each close up, slow-motion, Technicolor replay of Angel’s exploding head demanded that he feel guilty, ashamed. He didn’t. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. That bastard deserved what he got and worse. Even if he wasn’t a vampire, he was still a murderer. And he had broken Willow’s heart.

Xander drove as if for the sake of driving, trying to clear his head but not to think. He wound and twisted around the curvy mountain road west of town. It wasn’t until he turned into a certain curve, near Sunset Ridge (half expecting hazards that were mercifully not there) that he realized where he was going. There was still a gash in the tree line on the downhill slope. He parked Sheila’s car next to the propped open cemetery gate and walked inside. When he found the grave, he wasn’t sure what to do next. He stood next to the headstone with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He didn’t have any flowers or even any rocks.

“Hey,” he said finally, forcing a casual tone, feeling silly, “What’s up, Doc?”

The grave held it’s peace, the way they do.

“I uh… I’ve been driving your cars. I uh… I hope you don’t mind.”

Nah. Go ahead. We’re practically family. Except for the part with you screwing my daughter and dumping her. Hell, stash your dead body in my garage too why don’t ya. What're friends for?

“I’m uh… looking after the house, I guess. Sheila is… you know, the same.” Xander’s words hung heavily in the silence. Despite his own ridiculousness he couldn’t quite laugh. He got back in the car and drove to Willow’s to feed Amy.

The task didn’t take up nearly enough time from his day or enough space in his head. There was still plenty of room to think. About Angel. The fact that his forehead had exploded. The things he had said before it did. _“They’re not who they say they are. …they don’t necessarily plan for her to survive.”_ And about Giles. The things that he had said when they last met. _“…and_ _go home to my lovely wife, look her in her beautiful green eyes and tell her that I’m very worried about you because I have no idea where you could have gone.”_ Not venting. Perfectly in control. Perfectly capable of murder.

No! Angel could not be right. He could not have been honestly trying to protect Buffy. That would just suck way too much. But not as much as finding out a month or a year from now that Buffy was dead and he could have done something to stop it. Desperate for something more to do, and to talk to anyone, Xander sat down at the computer in Ira's study, the one that reminded him least of Willow, and tried to type a message to Cordelia.

But she was the last person who wanted to hear, especially now, that he desperately needed help confronting a possible danger to Buffy. If he told _Cordelia_ that he had killed Buffy's first love and was now wondering if he might also need to drive away her husband to protect her.... Crazy jealous didn't begin to describe the way he knew it would sound to her, or the way she would feel. God only knew what she might do. 'I love you.' he typed instead, 'See you soon. Everything will be fine.' And maybe it would be. There was still one place left that he could turn for help, or at least a kind ear and voice of sanity.

When he banged on Joyce’s door, a man answered. A man in a bathrobe. For a split second Xander thought he must be at the wrong house, but he wasn’t. The man asked him who he was, what he wanted at that hour, but there was no good answer he could give to a strange man in a bathrobe. He settled for telling the guy his name and that he used to go to school with Buffy. Joyce was sleeping. She couldn’t come to the door. Perhaps another time.

Xander thanked the asshole and left, trying very hard not to show how frustrated and therefore pissed off he was. He would just have to call her at the Gallery later. He didn’t have Buffy’s number in London. And anyway, Giles was there.

He couldn’t put it off any longer. Xander returned to the scene of his crime. Not because he had some kind of sick fascination or anything. He would rather have been anywhere but there. But he had to open the damned store if he wanted to keep his damned job. He was already over an hour late, something he’d have never gotten away with if his boss hadn’t been out of town. As he opened the door to hurry inside, his guts trembled and twisted inside him to the tinkling of the tiny bells.

****

It was a busy day for Council folk, but not a productive one. There were rumors and revelations, plots, plans, schemes and insinuations. It was hard to sort out one of these things from another. It was a day of whispered conversations that irregularly broke into shouts and then fell to whispers again. It was a day of cryptic messages, ill-timed call backs and busy signals. Men and women rushed about asking answers of colleagues who knew as little as themselves. By the afternoon, Events in Arizona, were stealing whispering time from The Crowne Business and The Situation with Rupert, as were attempts to relate the one to the other two. The most concrete and decisive step that anyone took all day was to put a flag on Rupert Giles’ passport.

It was in this atmosphere that Graham Dunstan (who was making a valiant but futile effort to conduct a normal day’s business in his corner office at a prestigious London brokerage firm) received a phone call from his mother, Mrs. Emma Dunstan née Travers. She greeted him in a tense, quietly frantic tone. At first, when he asked her what was wrong, she didn’t answer him directly. “You must come home right away,” she said instead.

“Mother, what is wrong?” he asked again, more firmly.

“I’d rather not say over the phone,” she insisted grimly. Given everything that was or might have been happening, he could not say for certain that she was being overcautious. He came home.

****

“You’ve got a lot damn nerve coming here,” Virgil said.

“Let me come in and sit down, you fool,” Dunstan snapped at him, “Before I catch my death.”

Virgil stood firm in the doorway. “You are not welcome in my home,” he said with relatively little bitterness, merely stating a well-known fact. “I assume you want the same with me that everyone else does.” He had hours ago given up answering his telephone which now served no other purpose than to carry requests, demands and inquiries that he stand for the sake peace, sit for the sake justice or at the very least speak for the sake of clarity. He knew very well why he was suddenly the bearer of everyone’s hopes and anxieties. Of the seven Equals, he was considered the weakest link, the one most likely to be swayed one way or the other.

“What do you plan to do?” the old bastard demanded.

“Guess,” Virgil said, then he turned and closed the door.

Dunstan cursed and stamped his foot so hard he nearly fell on his ninety-seven-year-old ass. He had to take hold of the façade to steady himself. He had been given all the audience he was to have with Virgil. There was nothing for it but to make his way back to the main thoroughfare, hail a cab, go home and dress for Rupert’s reception. He turned and began shuffling indignantly down the front steps, eyes trained on his feet, not because he was ashamed of anything, but because his treacherous old feet needed keeping an eye on. Thus engaged, he ran smack into a man (young only by contrast) who was hurrying up the walk. The man reached to grab hold of his coat, to keep him from falling. But when Dunstan looked up into his face, the face of his despised mortal enemy, he batted at his hands, trying to free himself, to push the villain away.

The man held on and kept him to his feet. As the world steadied itself and his field of vision became a bit more clear, so did his assessment of the man’s motives in grabbing at his coat. Dunstan felt relieved for the split second it took him to become embarrassed at his own foolishness and to be angered by it. “For God’s sake man!” he barked, “Watch where you are going. I could have been killed.”

“What a pity that would have been,” his colleague said in a voice that would have sent literal shivers down a lesser man’s spine, and many a greater one for that matter.

“I suppose you are here for the same reason I am,” Dunstan observed calmly. “Or should I say, the opposite.”

“Either seems fairly accurate,” said the younger man cryptically.

“Touché,” Dunstan said grudgingly, without a smile. “Anyway, I suppose he will make you no more answer than he will me.”

“Probably less,” the other Watcher agreed grimly.

“There is nothing Rupert can reveal about your father that I cannot,” Dunstan threatened baldly. “I know he was a rapist as surly as I know you are a murderer.”

His companion seemed to consider this fact for a moment. His eyes swept the length of the quiet and quite empty stretch of residential street on which they stood. “That,” he said, “I most certainly am.”

****

Andrew was gone when Buffy got home. Giles was in his study, methodically going through his cabinets. “Thank God,” he said when he saw Buffy. “I didn’t know how I was going to reach you.”

“You heard?” she asked, angry-sad.

“I heard,” Giles agreed grimly, abandoning his search to put his arms around his wife. He smelled curiously of cigarette smoke. “But I have no idea why. I was just… distracting myself with this. Were you… out looking for me?” he guessed.

Buffy shook her head. “Peter took me for a walk so he could ‘have a talk with me’ about being ‘realistic’,” she informed him bitterly, “And by the way, I told you so.”

“What did you tell him?” Giles asked worriedly, reaching absently in his coat-pocket for something, then seaming to think better of it.

“What do you _think_!?!” Buffy demanded, shocked and poised to be furious.

“No, I didn’t—I only meant how… stridently did you say it,” he hastened to clarify.

“Oh, I said I was going to burn down the Council Building and kill them all,” Buffy declared sarcastically, “Jeez, why does everybody around here have to act like I’m some kind of psychopath?”

“Sorry,” Giles said, a little sheepishly, “but you do get… well you can, sometimes… How much longer is it until the reception?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Four hours,” she said. “But anyway Andrew is the one who you ought to be worrying about how he ‘sometimes gets’. He is losing it, and I mean really. Like Lady Macbeth thinks he’s being a little too dramatic. Today he spent half an hour screaming at me (drunk of course) about the Uruguayan Rugby team that crashed in the Andes twenty-five years ago. And I mean, he was really upset. He was crying!”

Giles made a skeptical and displeased face. “Do you mean he wept? Actual tears?”

“Yeah,” Buffy said. “What? ‘Men don’t cry’?”

His face became more unpleasant still, “Not as a rule, no. Not in this country, anyway. Certainly not... men like my father.”

“Well he was,” Buffy said.

Giles brooded for a moment, then looked suddenly puzzled. “What did he say about them?”

“About who?”

“The… erm, Rugby chaps.” Giles was fairly familiar with the incident. He’d felt compelled to read Mr. Read’s excellent book on the subject as a cleansing, factual antidote to all the lurid tabloid photo essays Gwendolyn had brought home and shoved under his nose about it, but he hadn’t realized Andrew had taken any notice of it. Of course it wasn’t as though his father would have called to chat about what he was reading during that phase of their lives, even if he was deeply affected by it. Especially if he was deeply affected by it.

Buffy squirmed uncomfortably. “He kept going on about how they weren’t where they thought they were,” she said, “how they crashed five miles from a hotel or something, like they could have avoided the whole cannibalism thing if they just would have walked down hill and not listened to the pilot.”

“What?” he said, shaking his head. “That’s ridiculous. Five miles away in an Andean winter? That’s practically another country. Especially if you don’t know where you’re going, or even that there _is_ any there there. It isn’t as though they might have hailed a cab. How the devil did it even come up anyhow?”

“Oh,” Buffy said, dropping her eyes apologetically, “That was the weirdest part. And the crummiest, actually. He was talking about… you know, things you regret.”

“Oh,” said Giles grimly, essaying an ironic smile even though his eye looked a tiny bit like he’d just been stabbed. He made another nervous aborted grab for his coat pocket, then started fiddling with his glasses.

“The really weird thing though? He said it wasn’t an accident. You were a planned and wanted child, but then, all that talk about bad math and regrets… I couldn’t make it match.”

Giles snorted dryly, put his glasses back on and straightening them extremely carefully. “I imagine not. Following the way my father thinks… I’m sure it’s as hard to learn as it is to unlearn. Taking a risk, you see, even the smallest chance, knowing or upon infinite reflection supposing one had reason to know of it _counts_ as making a deliberate choice. We are responsible as though we acted with purpose for the natural and probable consequences of our voluntary acts. God it is a burdensome way to live!”

Buffy tried to agree with him. He certainly needed the support. “I guess that could have been what he meant,” she said. But even though huge chunks of words were the same, it hadn’t sounded like it. “Whatever,” she said, giving him a squeeze and a kiss. She made a face as she realized he tasted like an ashtray, but corrected it quickly. This was so not the time that he needed one more person coming down on him, even for something as seriously stupid as restarting smoking. “You’re still _my_ first choice for the ‘people who ought to exist in the universe’ awards,” she assured him. “But the point is, Andrew is coming unglued. I don’t think he’s up to schmoozing and being gracious tonight. I don’t even think he’s up to arm twisting and being sarcastic. I’m sort of worried he’s going to fall in a ditch and die. Or actually show up and somehow make everything even worse.”

“Well...” said Giles, but he didn’t really have any follow up to that. He had a lot of thoughts but none that would relieve Buffy’s anxieties and none on his own preoccupations concrete enough to be worth sharing. The notion of bad math and regrets connected in his mind instantly and rather intensely with Saint Agatha’s. You didn’t have to be a Catholic school girl to get pregnant using the rhythm method, but it helped. Most of St. Agatha’s children were adopted by good catholic families as the Church intended. Most but not all. And if it came down to a battle of wills, he’d pit Helena against the Holy Roman Catholic Church any day of the week and twice on Sunday. But that still didn’t explain such dread secrecy, especially after all these years. Besides, even in 1950, Andrew had been a little old for St. Agatha’s. As for how to improve their current circumstances, Giles had nothing to offer.

“He did say one thing that might turn out to be helpful,” Buffy was saying. Giles pulled himself from his own thoughts and focused on her. “That picture, the one of you as a baby?”

“Yes?”

“The guy is Virgil Gaudencio.”

****

“I’ve no choice,” Emma fretted, gripping the paper so tightly in her hands that it was crumpled in the middle. “I have to show this to you.” When she finally handed it to Graham, she turned her face away, as if from a slap. It was a single photocopied page from a handwritten journal, an entry dated 27, June, 1925 and scrawled across the whole of it in thin red ink, obscuring nothing: ‘WORK ON HIM!’

Blackmail? But his mother had only been a toddler then. The document soon explained itself. Graham read it and reread it. Words and sentences lurched and jumped at him:

_Helena Giles is pregnant with my child. … Little Emma… playing so quietly …‘we seed Miss Helena t’day… Daddy sayed he … don’t get done wiff her!’…Myrna was horrified, and devastated of course…. It wouldn’t have made sense to Myrna or almost anyone else … I raped her in February. I raped her. I raped her. Raped her. Raped. Rape. I raped. I raped her. Rape. It wouldn’t have made sense._

_I am relieved… I told Helena and Myrna both that… Helena and Myrna. Both…. matters between Helena and I are as near to normal as I think they are ever likely to be. Between Helena and I. Helena and I. Near to normal…. Likely… likely… a good deal more serious and aloof than previously. I am actually beginning to think that we are the creatures of a merciful God after all to have come through this with our souls more-or-less intact. Merciful God! Our souls intact. More-or-less intact. Rape. I raped. I raped her. Merciful God! … better sense than to say anything to Lyvia. Lyvia. …the Council. The Council… I’m certain Helena will tell her father . Her father…. The succession of the Weregelder Seat … still hopes to have Helena seated… Myrna… things between us. Things between us. Things have never been worse. Never been worse between us. Not surprisingly. I think the only thing stopping her from leaving me is the fact that she is due to deliver at any moment. I won’t be terribly shocked if she literally attempts to murder me in the very near future. Nor, for that matter would I be pleased to see Mr. Giles standing at the end of a dark ally. I suppose I shall simply have to rely on the fact that they are persons of a more decent and civilized sort than myself. Decent and civilized. Rape. Murder. Rape. She is due to deliver at any moment. At any moment. Whatever this transaction may be called._

Graham looked up at his mother but she refused to meet his eyes. “Work on whom?” he asked.

“Michael, I presume,” Emma answered quietly. “Possibly Julian, I suppose, but then I think he would have been specific. He knows we are not that close.”

“He?” Graham asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Emma demanded indignantly. “My dear brother Quentin. Scoundrel! Who else would sink so low? Who else would have my father’s journal? Besides he’s one of the few people—” Emma’s voice broke off in a strangled little cry of distress. She put her fist to her mouth and bit her knuckles in a way Graham had only ever seen women do in black and white monster movies. “But if he is in the pay of the Weregelders… Andrew must have… _Andrew_ must have known… Andrew must know!”

“They won’t get away with this!” Graham declared hotly. It occurred to Emma in a vague way that he appeared slightly comical, a balding, milquetoast, middle aged, English stockbroker making belligerent noises, implying violence. Her baby was disturbed by her distress and he was fussing. She was not amused by this. Her heart ached. Her life was such a failure and such a triumph and such a nonevent as most lives are. Most but not all. Some lives are never given a chance to be anything but disasters. She would change everything and she would change nothing. She would have so many things be true that were not true, were not possible and even if possible individually, could not coexist.

But one thing she would have and could have was the mercy of darkness in which to hide her sins. “Oh yes, they shall!” she insisted. “I’d sooner die than have this spread about in Council. I’d kill Quentin tonight if I thought it would stop this coming out.” Her words were spoken with passion and bitterness. Her voice shook.

“Now, Mother,” Graham started in placatingly, as if he were speaking to a child. Emma slapped him straight on the mouth, the way she hadn’t done in over forty years. It shocked him. Her face was hard and unapologetic.

“I am not a silly old woman,” she said icily. “Nor am I merely being prideful about my father’s memory. I am very personally concerned by this and if you love me so should you be also!”

“Mother of course I don’t _want_ —”

“Andrew Giles is the father of my firstborn child,” said Emma flatly. Graham was slammed in the face by a hot, suffocating silence that brought all his thoughts to a halt. He stood blinking stupidly.

“I kept it a secret, but my father found me out,” she continued quietly. “I told him the child was born dead and he pretended to believe me but… Seeing this, not only what he’s written, but the way he’s written it, the way he _speaks_ about all of us… I have no idea how much further this journal goes on or what else he might have written in it. You see, it all gets rather… a bit more... Sophoclean than I care to remember. I never wanted you to know any of this, but… there is no one else I can trust.”

“Good lord,” Graham gasped, “ _How_ does he expect us to ‘work on him’? Grandfather Dunstan is not going to to _stand_ to spare _Rupert Giles_ on your say so or mine or anyone else’s! He isn’t even going to _vote_ to spare him. He’d see us both hanged first!”

“That’s probably an exaggeration,” Emma said grimly, “in your case anyhow, but only just.”

“Maybe we _could_ work on Julian,” Graham suggested. “Or I could talk Wesley into working on him. He’s always looked up to me a little and I know Peter’s been working on him already. And we don’t have to convince him to stand, with all the votes he controls, only to instruct the other way.”

“That’ll never work _fast_ enough,” Emma objected. “As anxious as everyone is to have this business done, I feel sure they will vote on Monday.”

“Ah!” said Graham clasping his hands together. “ _That’s_ something we can work on Grandfather about. Have Father fret at him that we need to do the new enrollments first and that we need to vote first on the motion to expel, both to maximize the vote against Rupert. We might also argue that we need to deal with this disaster in Arizona before we do anything else lest the Proceeding prove too divisive to let us get anything of substance done afterward.”

“That might be true actually,” Emma mused, frowning. Then she added, a little more hopefully, “Yes, I think I can manage that much, to delay them a couple of days. We can only hope it is long enough for whatever other intrigues my brother is no doubt up to to have time enough to work.”

“Well,” Said Graham grimly, “I certainly hope someone is in a better position than us to make some bold move towards dealing with this matter.”

****

“Ah! Ah! Oh my God that feels fantastic!” Giles moaned. He was lying down. Buffy was kneeling on the bed and leaning over him sucking the head of his cock.

“I think that’s sufficiently ‘fluffed’,” she laughed, swinging around to straddle him, to welcome him inside her. They hadn’t been at it two minutes when they heard the front door open and shut, none too quietly. Buffy could feel all the angst and worry she’d been working so hard at banishing rushing back, for Giles as well as herself.

Silently reaching an undesired agreement, they disengaged, regretfully, apologetically and begin getting their clothes back on as they waited for Andrew’s inevitable angry shouting at the state in which they had left his study. Minutes passed. They were fully dressed now. The shouting didn’t come. “Perhaps we’d better go and see if he has any… progress to report,” Giles said at last. Buffy groaned but nodded.

They found him sitting in the living room smoking a cigarette and, what was even stranger, not drinking. “I have to do something for my nerves,” he said somewhere between defensively and apologetically, relating the two anomalies. “I think we had all better keep our wits about us this evening.”

Once again Giles reached towards but not into the pocket of the tweed coat he’d just put back on. Buffy rolled her eyes. “Go ahead,” she said. “Smoke ‘em if you’ve got ‘em. Nobody worry about the pregnant girl. Seriously,” she said a little more gently in response to Giles’ chastened look. “I’m just going to go in the other room and call Mom.”

Giles still felt guilty and self-conscious, but as she left the room he sat down next to his father, got a cigarette out and lit it. “I didn’t know you’d taken that up again,” Andrew said quietly.

“I should have known better than to think I could smoke a cigar,” Giles said. “I started having the cravings again as soon as I stubbed it out. Anyhow, please don’t lecture me right now, especially with a cigarette in your hand. I don’t think I can take it in very good grace at the moment.”

Andrew smiled sadly. How very like a Giles to blame his own mistakes for his suffering rather than plead helplessness before overwhelming external stress, even the stress of an external pressure of his own making. Thinking of the source of Rupert’s anxiety, anticipating being asked what he had been up to today regarding it, staggered Andrew back with the full force of his ancient and contemporary sins. “God, I am a wretched excuse for a human being,” he said aloud.

Giles looked at his father askance. If he hadn’t known any better, he’d have thought he was hearing an oblique and rather broad apology. Encompassing what exactly? He hardly knew how to respond, even if he took the statement in face value. The obligatory denials and reassurances stuck in his throat. It was difficult to forgive without knowing what precisely was being repented. ‘If you are sorry I was ever born,’ he thought, ‘repent to someone else about it.’

“Where were you?” Giles asked instead, trying to shift their focus bock to the present crisis, which seemed at least marginally less futile than rehashing the past.

Another self-mocking smile flitted across Andrew’s face. “I went to pay a visit upon another old friend,” he said cryptically.

“Whom and to what end?” Giles pressed. He was damnably tired of cryptic.

“None of your business, and to try to influence the Proceeding, obviously,” Andrew retorted haughtily. His seemingly confessional mood evaporated as quickly as it had manifested itself. For a while they sat and smoked in silence. “I may have slowed things down a bit with some of my... contacts today,” Andrew said grimly after a time, “but ultimately....”

“Veto is the only real hope we have,” Rupert agreed. “I’m… contingently sure of Robson, though he will certainly need assurance of the other two. I’m as sure of Quentin as one can be of Quentin, though he still hates us all of course, which doesn’t help my confidence. If the third is not to be Milton, nor from what Quentin has told us, Davidson, it shall certainly have to be Virgil Gaudencio. Considering how much that is asking of him, an approach by Robson might be too indirect, presumptuous.”

“It should be someone closer to you,” Andrew acknowledged.

“How thoroughly have you made an enemy of him?” Giles asked.

“Extremely,” Andrew admitted tersely.

“Then either Buffy or I shall have to approach him, damn the protocol.”

“Make it Buffy,” Andrew advised. Seconds passed in which he did not elaborate. He lit another cigarette.

“Well, but he’s hardly met Buffy,” Giles pointed out, watching his father closely for some sign of a reaction, “whereas he and I evidently have some sort of history that I am not even privileged to know about.”

Andrew met his son’s frank gaze more than frankly, defiantly. “Well I am ‘privileged’ as you say to know that history, and believe me, he will be more responsive to Buffy. Trust me,” Andrew assured him ironically, bordering on apologetically. “I may not be any great shakes at living my own life, but when it comes to moving other people around like pawns on a chess board, I know exactly what I'm doing.”

****

“What d’you mean ‘he’s not here?’” Clara Font demanded of her second cousin Mary who acted as housekeeper to their great uncle, Michael Dunstan.

“I mean, ‘he’s not here,’” Mary repeated, exasperated. “I’ll tell you exactly as I told Graham and Emma. When he left this afternoon he said—”

“Do you mean to tell me,” Clara interrupted indignantly, “that you have already had two previous inquiries into his welfare and whereabouts and have done nothing to determine—?”

“No,” Mary interrupted her right back, “They were together. And what should I be trying to determine? This is Michael Dunstan we are speaking of, not some invalid. He’s only been gone six hours. And as I was saying, he told me when he left this afternoon that he’d no idea how long he would gone, that he wished for no one to know where he was going and that his business was very urgent and none of mine.”

“I see,” Clara fairly hissed, “And did he not mention that he and I have had plans for this evening set in stone for nearly a month?”

“From what I hear,” Mary replied coolly, “there’s been at least a month’s worth of stone unset in the past twenty-four hours. Perhaps, in fact, a great deal more than that. Mr. Dunstan is no doubt about his own business, which he has been quite capably handling for the better part of this century, and until I see some further cause for alarm, I shall leave him to it.”

At that moment, the telephone rang. It was the London Metropolitan Police, requesting that someone should come to identify the body of Michael Dunstan.

****

Willow made it through the morning alright. One great thing about Calculus is that it doesn’t leave much room in your head for anything else. But by lunch time, her test completed and handed in, Willow’s brain was getting crowded with other things again, including a lot of practical math. Her original estimate of how fast she was sleeping had to be wrong. She had calculated that every five minutes should amount to about three hours, which meant sleeping twenty minutes a day would equate to twelve hours out of thirty-six, the same ratio as eight out of twenty-four. But she had slept quite a bit more than that since casting her spell: forty-five minutes the first day plus ten more after midnight last night and another twenty this morning before breakfast. That would mean that she had lived through well over three days in the last day and a half, sleeping more than she was awake. It would mean that she had currently been up less than seven hours after sleeping for twelve. But if that was true, why was she so tired again already?

Besides, it would also mean she should be having her usual signs of PMS by now, which she wasn’t. Clearly, Willow decided, she must have miscalculated. Or perhaps, she thought, hopefully, remembering how very, very well rested she had been after her first post-spell nap, the enchantment was slowly wearing off, each minute of express sleep a little shorter, working its way towards normal. Maybe she had really only gotten a few hours’ sleep last night and this morning. Maybe there was nothing to worry about after all. Maybe everything would be fine. Willow ate her lunch, meager as it was, then fell asleep at the table, exhausted. She was shaken awake five minutes later and prodded along to the computer room at last, a little less exhausted but starving.

****

Faith slept in her half a cat suit, which couldn’t have been comfortable. At least, she slept some. Doug, was in and out himself for the first few hours, but he woke more than once to the sound of her crying. She was in pain of every possible kind. He made sure to keep giving her plenty of drugs. He was tempted to take something himself, but someone had to stay alert. They were a pair of infinitesimal dust motes floating alone through a vast and actively hostile universe. Which was a poetic way of saying that they were a couple of fucking fugitives whose lives weren’t worth a bucket of warm piss in any state in the Union.

By midday, Douglas had done all of the fitful dosing he could stand. He sat up and lit a cigarette, thinking about his next move. ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ Douglas thought. ‘And go where, exactly?’ Doug challenged bitterly. Somewhere a fucking lot further than Mexico, that was for damned sure. But how in God’s name were they supposed to do that without any money? If last night was any indication, thieving was never going to pay anything like as well as being a doctor.

He thought again of the sketchy information Faith had gotten from April about these Council people and about the whole idea of ‘The Slayer’. Of all the places on God’s green Earth they could possibly go, Sunnydale, California, the place Faith had meant to head for when she’d busted him out of jail, was the last place they needed to be. It was the one place this side of the Atlantic where they knew for a fact the Council and it’s agents were present. And it wasn’t like they could go to this other Slayer, this “Buffy” for help. From what April had said she was all about the Council. The very first thing she would do was run to her “Watcher” with the news, if he wasn’t already by her side.

The only thing worse than going to Sunnydale would be heading South. That was what The Authorities expected. They should probably be heading for frickin’ Canada, Doug realized. Or heading East more like. Looking for a place to hide in plain sight. A place where they didn’t stand out. ‘Like Boston,’ Doug thought sarcastically. Or somewhere where nobody was from there, somewhere where sticking out blended in! And suddenly, their destination was all too clear and mercifully close. After all, what better place was there on Earth for two wayward souls to lose themselves in plain sight than 'the edge of the world and all of Western Civilization?'

“Go West, young man,” Douglas whispered to himself, amused. And west they would continue to go, into that crowded desert, that terminus of a lost frontier, that last outpost of desperate American Optimism clinging to the edge of this 'Brave New World', to the Pacific Rim, where West curled in upon East and everything New became Old again. He figured they could hide themselves pretty well in the wilds of darkest Los Angeles.


	19. Party(!)*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giles and Buffy's have their wedding reception at last. It's a real nice party up until...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part III: Where the Heart Is
> 
> *If you're hearing this Chapter Title in the the voice of Fritz from "I Robot, You Jane", you're on the right track.  
> **If you're hearing this in the voice of Kaylee from Firefly, you're still on the right track, keep going.

It was a whispering kind of party, like a gallery opening at which the works exhibited make everyone slightly uncomfortable, slightly embarrassed but everyone is too polite to say so, at least loudly or directly. The buzz of hundreds of very quiet conversations overlaid by the crooning of ‘Old Standards’ (love songs from the middle third of the twentieth century evidently chosen for their tedious homogeneity and bathetic sentimentality) was a constant, irritating gray noise in Andrew’s pounding head. ♫I hear music, simply because you are near me—♪ Eight hours clean and sober evidently didn’t feel any better at mid-evening than it did first thing in the morning.

The music was Ms. Winston’s doing, the whispering Rupert’s one way and another. ♫When you’re in love; the world’s in love with you—♪

As the first half hour of their anemic revel drew to a close and it began to be clear who was likely absent as opposed to fashionably late, the returns, as it were, were not encouraging. Where the Devil was Quentin, or his son for that matter? Andrew would have thought it should have been entirely clear to them, under the changing circumstances, that they ought to have been here, early and prepared to look happy about it. ♫When I see your shining face—♪

Though there was a fair correlation between expectation and arrival of the University and Museum folk and sundry other incidental guests, less than one hundred of those present had even the slightest connection to the Council. Only thirty were Watchers, and Phillip Robson was the sole representative of the Inner Council. ♫It had to be you—♪

This last should perhaps have been a relief. It meant the absence of Michael Dunstan (always preferable to his presence) and of Milton Crowne, who must be suspected of mental instability for proposing to attend any sort of social gathering while his daughter’s body remained unburied. But the absence of Adam Davidson and especially of Virgil Gaudencio was disheartening, even if Andrew wasn’t eager to see Rupert and Virgil conversing in a way that might lead to dredging up history. ♫Some others I've seen, Might never be mean—♪

Incredibly, despite her injuries, Laura Sterling, alone of all her kith, was present. ♫Might never be cross or try to be boss, but they wouldn’t do—♪

Perhaps, Andrew decided, one drink wouldn’t hurt him after all.

~~~~~

‘I can do this,’ Buffy assured the bathroom mirror, ‘I’m good at this,’ but silently, because the bathroom was full of other women, not a single one of which she had ever met before tonight. Women who, if they knew anything about her, didn’t like it.

She wished to God Mildred had come. Then at least there would have been one other girl with something more to say to her than ‘Excuse me.’ But Lilith Robson ‘hadn’t felt well enough’ to come and had needed Mildred to ‘help her manage’ a houseful of well behaved children who were probably in bed by now. It didn’t seem like Robson had a whole lot of support for supporting them even in his own house without the capital letter.

Buffy touched up her lipstick just to justify hogging the mirror. The Prom Princess squared her shoulders. This wasn’t her first bout of social leprosy and though she’d never found the cure, she knew the only treatment that could do it any good. ‘Alright,’ she thought, ‘Once more in to the breach!’ That thought was followed closely by, ‘I have to start finding more time to hang out with normal people again.’

But that certainly wasn’t going to happen here tonight. Within seconds of leaving the bathroom, Buffy was pulled into a conversation that Giles was already struggling like a dinosaur in a tar pit escape. ‘Museum humor’ featured heavily. Worse, the astonishingly boring couple with whom they were being forced to converse were non-Council, irrelevant. Mercifully, Morrison waived them over to join a pair of comparatively animated Watchers in a much more interesting, if even less ‘normal’ conversation.

“I’m telling you; it’s the bloody Catholics!” insisted a sixtyish Beatnik looking guy with an earring and a goatee, whom Giles identified as Norman Helton, an ‘Olive Sterling’ which was a subspecies of a Travers, not a Facundian. He was haranguing a fiftyish woman, Elizabeth Marle, a Facundian without being a Crowne or a Sterling, who looked like she was dressed as Margret Thatcher for Halloween. “They’ve been planning this for centuries! And no, I don’t think for a minute that they’ve forgotten about the little matter of Friday the 13th of October!”

“But what have they to gain?” the woman countered. “It’s not as though they are going to have any control over the value of this new currency.”

“Won’t they?!” Helton demanded. “They control the governments of half the countries involved in this… endeavor! Anyhow, they don’t have to _control_ it; it’ll inevitably be weaker than the Pound and that will weaken Britain, which can only be to their advantage, even if they are already… encamped at 10 Downing Street!”

Ms. Marle gave him a disdainful look that Buffy recognized as the well-bred British equivalent of rolling her eyes. “Well, Mr. Giles,” she politely widened the conversation to make room for them, “what do you think of this idea of a new European currency?”

“I think I could do with a few pounds less ‘Sterling’ in my life actually,” Giles quipped, hardly feeling he had anything to lose. Marle gasped and smiled at the same time, pleasantly scandalized by the sly boldness of this oblique but in no way ambiguous reference. Helton gave him a grudging but respectful smile. He felt assured of both of their support. Neither was the type to be quite so comfortable letting him joke with them that way if they’d had any plans to stab him in the back.

Giles was already casting an eye about for the next group of potential well-wishers to greet when Helton said to Buffy, “And you, Madam, what is your opinion?”

Buffy looked at Giles uncertainly but found no comfort or guidance in the God-please-don’t-let-her-embarrass-me look in his eyes. Knowing it was probably a mistake, but not sure what wouldn’t be, she tried to joke along with everyone else. “Well,” she offered with a nervous smile, “I’m not sure anything that happens on Friday the 13th is liable to be a good thing.”

Ms. Marle looked like she was about to choke on her own consternation, and Giles was definitely embarrassed, but Helton and Morrison both laughed. “Dear child,” the older Watcher explained, “Friday the 13th is when _we_ happened to _them_.” He gave a brief, witty, irreverent history of the role of the Templars in the medieval Catholic banking system and of the Watcher’s Council in having the organization suppressed.

Buffy followed the what that had happened well enough, but not the why. “I don’t get it,” she half apologized, certain she was missing something that seemed obvious to these very smart people, “What makes these Night Temple guys the baddies?”

Appalled, Ms. Marle excused herself, pretending to be suddenly very interested in speaking to someone across the room. Giles was both embarrassed and annoyed, but he deliberately didn’t say so, trying to practice solidarity. “Sweet revenge,” Helton explained patiently, taking her ‘misnaming’ for the intentional declaration of intellectual inferiority and concession of social dominance that it was.

Now it was Buffy’s turn to make unpleasant faces. “I’m not usually a big fan of that motive, actually,” she said. “But I’ll bite. Why did they have it coming?”

“Well, you see,” Helton explained, warming to what was obviously one of his pet topics in a very Watcherly way, practically rubbing his hands together with the special glee of knowing obscure things and getting to recite them to a fresh audience, “it all goes back to The Inquisition.”

“Like the Spanish Inquisition?” Buffy asked. She really was surprised. You really don't expect that bit of history to pop up in conversation much.

“No the real Inquisition,” Helton answered.

“An earlier erm… more complex phenomenon,” Giles explained, “A more genuine and widespread if no less cruel and ignorant attempt to root out heresy in the medieval Church.”

“You see,” Helton explained, “even though the Council was purporting to operate within the confines of Christian orthodoxy, as everyone had to in those days, there were those within the Church who suspected us—quite correctly—of more… unconventional beliefs and practices, including the Templars, who had also financial and political motives to wish us ill. Well, we’d been doing our very best to avoid religious controversies ever since being implicated in the so called Arian Heresy, though of course, even Arius himself would not have touched our actual ‘doctrines’, if one could call them that, with a ten foot pole…”

“While we are young,” Morrison begged, good-humoredly. Buffy sort of loved him for that.

“At any rate,” Helton explained, “In 1271, an ally of the Templars falsely denounced one of the Inner Council, Simon Giles, to the Inquisition as a Cathar. They were hoping of course that under torture it would all lead back to us one way or another, which no doubt it would have. The Council… could not allow him to be taken.

"The Cathars, you see, whom the Inquisition had by then stamped out to the point that they were all but fictitious—not that there were ever any more Cathars in England than Communists in Hollywood—believed that Earth and Hell were one and the same. Well, we could hardly have one of our own forced to confess that while we don’t believe this world is quite a Hell any longer, it was until quite recently and may be again but for the efforts of a perpetually regenerating female demi—! de… demon hunter.”

Helton seemed quite a bit more embarrassed than could be explained by stumbling over a word, even in this company. Morrison looked dismayed, Giles uneasy. Buffy had the crazy feeling there was something they were collectively not telling her. She guessed hanging out with people whose real life universe included playing power games against the Knights Templar and The “Real” Inquisition, even in the extreme past tense, could make anyone paranoid if they weren’t too careful.

“So,” Giles finished hurriedly on Helton’s behalf, “our unfortunate ancestor lost his life and within a very few decades the Templars and all their allies had ample cause to regret it.”

“On October 13th, 1307,” Helton went on, recovering his footing somewhat, “thanks to our pioneering work with the new power of the Nation State, as well as our cultivation of our own allies within the Church hierarchy, they were all rounded up and killed and their assets redistributed. It was quite a coup and don’t think the other, burgeoning secret societies didn’t take notice. Or that their various descendant organizations don’t remember.”

Buffy's brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I follow,” she admitted. “If they—the Templars, the Inquisition, whoever—killed this… Simon… person…” Buffy faltered a little as the name struck her. “How did they not get any dirt on the rest of the Council?”

Again the men exchanged uncomfortable looks. “They didn’t kill him. Not directly anyhow,” Helton explained. “He was erm… ‘tipped off’ by a sort of… double agent, I guess you would say. He had enough warning to do what needed to be done.”

“He killed himself,” Buffy surmised soberly. “For the Council. For the Slayer. For the… work that we do.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Helton explained grimly. “You see, they would have killed us all, to the last man woman and child, leaving the Slayer blind and unsupported. Simon Giles could not be taken alive, and yet, suicide was not an option. At that time, in that place, it was… an unthinkable disgrace. Simon himself proposed a resolution, which the Council adopted.”

“Which was?” Buffy prompted.

“His only son, Andrew” Helton explained, “slit his throat and was hanged for it.”

Buffy was shocked, maybe even a little disoriented. “But he knew,” she said, “He _had_ to know that his son was going to die too. And… even besides that, how could he ask his _son_ …”

“Whom else,” said Helton ponderously, “should he have asked?”

“I think… I think I’m going to… excuse me,” Buffy said, and ran for the Ladies’ Room.

She emerged to find Giles, alone—which he had to work hard at being under the circumstances—waiting for her. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Buffy nodded, though even after vomiting several times, she still felt quite ill. “Just… the usual,” she half-lied.

“These things do get… terribly... Byzantine,” he murmured, seeing right through her ‘usual’. It sounded something like an apology, though it was hard to be sure since she couldn’t exactly place the adjective. “With terrible responsibility comes… terrible choices,” he continued gravely. Not an apology, that other thing.

“How can you justify—” Buffy began, “I mean, alright, I know it was the middle ages and everything, but still…” She held a protective hand half consciously to her abdomen.

“People do what they have to do,” Giles said quietly. “Or what they think they have to do.”

“Yeah,” said Buffy, reminded uneasily of Andrew’s rambling, cryptic soliloquy that morning and of Peter’s ‘talk’ that afternoon. “I’m figuring that out.”

~~~~~

At twenty to eight, one of the caterer’s minions found Andrew at the bar to tell him that there would be a ‘slight delay’ in serving dinner, it simply could not be done at eight. It would be nearer nine. And, no, unfortunately, there were not additional reserves of slightly heavier hors d’oeuvre on hand in case of just such an eventuality. There was plenty to drink of course. “I _suppose_ it can’t be helped,” Andrew snarled, trying to be gracious but not trying very hard. ‘Splendid,’ he fumed silently, ‘positively splendid.’ Precisely what the already unconvivial gathering needed was for everyone to be hungry, bored and slightly drunk. ♫Can the ocean keep from rushing to the shore?—♪

Finishing his second large whiskey rather more quickly than the first, Andrew looked around the room for his son. He was hovering a minimally discrete distance from the entrance to the Ladies’ to which his wife had escaped for at least the fourth time in the young evening. Andrew didn’t believe for a moment that she was indisposed. She was hiding. Rather unbecoming, he thought, of a supernaturally destined champion. Perhaps there was not so very much more to her than first appeared after all. Perhaps he’d only been driven sentimental by drink as nostalgia. ♫—Are the stars out tonight? I can’t tell if it’s cloudy or bright! ♪

As Andrew crossed to where Rupert was fretting, he watched Phillip Robson inflict further wounds to his already battered public honor by attempting to cheer and comfort him. “Robson,” he acknowledged with a brisk nod. ♫I’ve got the world on a string—♪

“Mr. Giles,” Robson replied curtly with a slight, sharp nod in the direction of the concept of a nod. He averted his eyes slightly, even at that. He was _embarrassed_ to have to be seen speaking to _the Elder_ Mr. Giles! Andrew directed a few jovial pleasantries in his direction at moderately high volume just for spite, then explained the doubtful status of the feast to his already beleaguered, son, who only sighed and shook his head all the more.

“Sorry about that,” Buffy said returning to her husband’s side with that sheepish, mildly self-disgusted crinkling of the face he was growing accustomed to seeing at moments like this. She stood out in the conservatively dressed crowd quite as badly as if, she’d gotten herself up for a fancy dress party. In fact, add a pair of wings the same tent and texture as her gown and she could be a damned dragonfly. ♫Nevertheless, I’m in love with you—♪

Rupert greeted her as gratefully, with as much relief as if she’d been away a month. Almost as warmly as Andrew would have welcomed another drink. He flagged a waiter who made his unhurried way towards them over the next several centuries with a tray of Champagne. “There’s something in those hors d'oeuvres that doesn’t smell right to me,” the girl went on, “I can’t get my stomach settled. And they swear there’s no more crackers. They’ve used every single one. Thank God it’s just about time for dinner.”

The three Watchers held a brief conversation of uneasy looks, the conclusion of which was that Rupert had to be the one to tell her. Which he did. “Perfect,” she pouted like the child she was, “What else could go wrong?” ♫Worry. Why do I let myself worry? Wund’rin'—♪

While he waited for the Champagne, Andrew lit a cigarette. The girl wasn't the only one who scowled at him for that. ♫I'm crazy for tryin' and crazy for cryin'—♪

‘Standards’, he mused, weren’t quite what they’d used to be.

~~~~~

As eight o’clock approached with no sign that dinner was imminent and news of the delay spread, the guests began to become restless. They milled about, disgruntled murmuring and speculation at least giving them something to do. Andrew finished his Champagne and headed back to the bar for another drink. Buffy and Giles were obliged to be more sociable, to greet the few guests they had thus far managed with good reasons to avoid and to make not-quite-so-small talk with the mass they had merely greeted.

“Professor Andwele,” Giles addressed an older Black gentleman, his voice warm and polite but his expression acutely uncomfortable, “may I present my wife, Buffy Summers-Giles.”

“Delighted, my dear,” Andwele said courteously, taking her hand, trying with moderate success not to look exactly the opposite. His name was clearly African, but his accent was perfectly British. A colleague of Andrew’s Giles indicated, evidently in his other profession.

“My pleasure,” said Buffy, with an excellent facsimile of a warm smile. He was so clearly oblivious to what was really going on; why was Giles so nervous of him?

“How is… erm Olivia,” Giles asked at last, feeling he had no choice.

For a moment the look in the older man’s eyes was appraising and very slightly unkind. “My daughter is—”

“Quite well, I assure you,” said a dark and lovely woman of about ‘this is what forty looks like’ emerging from the crowd. Andwele looked confused for a moment, then nodded to Olivia and walked away. “Plus one,” she said, by way of explanation.

“I’m Buffy,” Buffy said finally, extending her hand, when Giles had stood much too long without saying anything.

“I think I might have worked that out,” Olivia said, pretend jokingly, with a brief half-handshake and a subtly mean smile. Something about her grip felt off, incongruous, though not exactly clumsy. “Congratulations,” she said to Giles with even more polite and deniable viciousness, “You’ve married a very lovely young woman, and obviously a very… persuasive one, or never isn’t quite such a long time as I’d always imagined.”

“Olivia is a erm… an old friend of mine from Cambridge… our fathers…” Giles stammered addressing Buffy, his tone though not his words apologetic.

“I think I worked it out,” Buffy echoed dryly.

“So, I hear you’re lecturing at the University of Edinburgh,” Giles essayed with forced, desperate cheer, “in, what is it, Mathematics? That must be terribly interesting.”

Both women looked at him with an odd mixture of incredulity and in Buffy’s case sympathy, in Olivia’s disdain. “It can be,” Olivia said crisply, then, subtly vicious again, “Of course nothing I teach is nearly as interesting as the mathematical relationship between a regressive series of women’s ages and the relative value of ‘forever’.”

Giles was shocked. He knew Olivia had been hurt when he’d left Gwendolyn not to be with her but alone and on general principles, but she’d always acted as if she’d understood and she’d seemed genuinely friendly when he’d seen her by chance four or five years earlier. At any rate she’d never been mean spirited or rude for as long as he’d known her. “Of course,” she added, specifically to Buffy, “I was actually quite a bit younger than you when I first knew Ripper. Young enough to wonder why they called him that at any rate.”

Buffy shot her husband a look that said, ‘do something about this or I’m going to.’ “Well,” said Giles blandly, putting his hand on Buffy’s back as if to steer her, looking hopefully around the room to catch anyone’s eye. “Thank you for coming. It’s been so nice catching up.”

“Certainly,” Olivia smiled grimly. “So nice to have met you, my dear. I hear perhaps dear Rupert will sing us a song later, I’m sure he can find something that captures the ‘quintessence’ of the occasion.”

Just when Buffy thought they were done with the horrible woman, Giles turned and grabbed her suddenly by the wrist, his face expressionless except for his eyes, which burned with fear and quiet rage. He released her wrist, flinging it from him disdainfully. At about the moment Buffy realized he had just checked the woman’s pulse, he suddenly, carefully snatched a single hair from her head. She made moderate noises of shock and outrage as if to assert her position as the wronged party without drawing too much attention, making as if to go. Giles grabbed her firmly by the elbow with one hand and showed Buffy the hair in the other. It was a dark russet brown, thin and very straight, definitely Caucasian.

“Who are you?!” Giles demanded. The woman said nothing. “Answer me!” he persisted angrily, “and don’t lie!” ‘Olivia’ smiled and tossed off what sounded like a taunt in Latin, snapping her fingers. It _was_ a taunt, Giles realized, which could have been very roughly translated, ‘I’m rubber and you’re glue.’

“Ethan, you repugnant son of a hardworking decent married woman! I am going to beat you nowhere near to death but very painfully if you do not remove this spell relatively soon or convince me of some good reason not to do so, such as the fact that there are seven-hundred people watching us and I’m already in enough trouble for impregnating my Slayer and you look like a helpless woman. Damn…nation is a problematic construction of several loosely related phenomena! Inscrutable God, I hate truth spells! Unless I’m the one using them.”

Well over a hundred people were actively staring at them. Giles was speaking quietly but impassionedly, still apparently holding his infamous former mistress by the elbow while his wife looked on aghast. And it was a whispering kind of party.

“Take your hands off me, Mr. Giles!” Ethan cried a little more loudly. Giles did, embarrassed. Ethan turned to go, muttering just loudly enough for the three of them to hear, “Enjoy your wedding present, My Dear.”

Buffy tried to put out her foot to trip him but the maneuver was awkward in her long skirt and before she could work it out, the moment was passed, there was no stopping him now without plowing through the crowd and making a much bigger scene, which Buffy seemed poised to do.

“Don’t,” Giles advised, “I know the incantation. It’ll wear off in a couple of days, I just need to get out of here. Would you please lie to everyone about why I’ve left.”

“Why can’t I just lie for both of us and then everybody can leave?” Buffy asked.

“Because I’m hoping to pack a few things and leave town while they’ve got you occupied,” Giles said, then uttered the word, “Frustration!” in very much the manner of someone who is doing his damnedest to curse. Buffy looked hurt, appalled, confused and rapidly approaching angry. Giles took a deep, calming breath and resisted the urge to explain himself. He was not compelled to speak all the truth that he knew, but he could neither lie nor refuse to answer a direct question, and once he got started speaking truthfully on any particular topic, it was difficult to stop.

“Please,” he begged, “forgive me and don’t ask me any questions. Just let me go to Bath until Monday.”

“Why can’t we just go back to Andrew’s?” Buffy demanded.

“Because I have too many secrets from you,” he answered miserably. “Please, Buffy, don’t do this, I’m helpless. I have to get out of here before I start confessing to murders and revealing disgraceful secrets.”

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Buffy cursed. “Not you,” she added. He was right. She had to let him go before he made absolutely everything even worse. She had to let him hide whatever he was hiding. For now anyway. “Go on,” she said, “I’ll figure something out.” And he would have gone, but for the pace of events. The party was just getting started.

~~~~~

Virgil delayed arriving until eight on the dot, then waited another three minutes to go inside. In light of all the circumstances, he felt he ought to be there to show his support for the merciful disposition of Rupert’s case, but he had no wish to make himself a target for exhortation by enduring the cocktail hour or by arriving while there was still space available at the head table.

He was only a little shocked to meet Milton Crowne in the front entry, aiming to do exactly the same. He was more than a little angry. He demanded an explanation of him for forcing the Weregelders to carry on with this fiasco if he intended to do nothing for them. Milton tried to counsel patience and implied that wicked but pleasant surprises might be in the offing. This made Virgil angrier still, almost angry enough to tell Milton what he had witnessed that afternoon. He checked himself. Having such a thing known could not but make matters worse, for everyone.

“If you are playing some kind of game, Milton,” he warned instead, “I hope you are prepared to enjoy the results. I cannot imagine how you hope to benefit yourself or to honor your daughter by throwing the Council into chaos!”

“This because I do not sell my succession to prevent something that you yourself voted to recommend?” Milton challenged sardonically.

“I was wrong,” Virgil told him fervently. “I was vengeful and foolish. Please,” he exhorted, pride by the wayside, “Let us resend the Recommendation tonight. You and I and Quentin and Robson are four votes and you can as easily keep Julian in his seat as look at him. You need only tell him you are undecided as to the succession!”

If the meeting were called for after midnight, that would fulfill the requirement of a day’s notice and if all were called and only six came, that would be a quorum and no three to stand. Action had to be taken before Quentin was removed and Dunstan replaced.

“Name anything in my power and it is yours,” Virgil pleaded, “Or leave it unnamed and I shall be in your debt! Too much is at stake, can’t you feel it! The hour of darkness is at hand! We have to stand together!”

~~~~~

Giles was headed for the door when Richard Dowel, an old non-Watcher friend of Andrew’s, dragged the Elder Mr. Giles away from the bar and into his path. “So how are you enjoying married life?” He asked jovially, almost leeringly, clearly drunk.

“Guiltily and under the shadow of doom, but quite thoroughly, especially the sex, which knowing you, I am sure is what you really meant,” Rupert answered. “Aggravation!” he spat immediately afterward, as if he were in pain. Dowel was too appalled to speak.

“Rupert!” Andrew scolded, shocked, “What the devil is the matter with you?”

“I am under a truth spell,” Rupert explained, “a ‘wedding present’ from Ethan Rayne.”

“Under a what?” Dowel demanded “Who’s Ethan Rayne?”

“A magic spell that forces me to tell the truth,” Rupert answered, mortified. “And a closeted homosexual evil wizard with whom I have had a complex, intermittently sordid but mostly hostile relationship ever since we shared a flat in London with several other young people in the early seventies. Excuse us,” he added, “I need to speak to my father privately as an excuse to avoid speaking to you any further. Blast nothing in particular to one hell or another!”

“Excuse us,” Andrew echoed. “I think my son could use some fresh air.”

~~~~~

Virgil only realized he’d put his hands on Milton when the other Watcher stiffly pushed them off, straightening his lapels. The tuxedoed usher taking invitations at the door looked at the two old men uneasily, as if wondering whether he ought to call for security.

“There is great power in our hands,” Virgil said quietly. “Power our ancestors took or were given by what means we know not. Power we are responsible for but not necessarily entitled to. But we know, within reason we have to know, where she gets her power. It doesn’t come from Earth and it doesn’t come from Hell. What right have we, in this extremity, to oppose her? And with what consequence?”

Milton looked both appalled and unsure of himself, both nearly unprecedented. “I am not well,” he said with a small shudder. “I need to think… I need… There is no word for what I need. I’d as soon I were dead as… as...” He turned as if to go. He looked so lost, so suddenly deflated, that Virgil found himself offering to see him home before he though to worry if his Equal might be offended by the suggestion.

For a moment, indeed, Milton seemed offended. Not wryly amuse, offended. Then he nodded slowly. He was not himself, but at least he was coming to himself enough to recognize the fact. Virgil would see him safely to bed he decided, then call on him in the morning to renew his pitch for Recession. With any luck, even if Dunstan’s body were found by then, even if he were replaced (no doubt by someone as set against Rupert as himself), if Milton and thereby Julian could be brought around before Quentin was revealed for what he was and replaced, before anything else could go wrong…

Virgil and Milton had hardly taken a step towards the exit when Clara Font burst through the door, nearly knocking them over.

~~~~~

Rupert and Andrew Giles were ready to bolt for the front door, but before they could stir a step they were rooted in place by the hauntingly familiar strains of a song they had both tried long ago and with some success to forget. An ‘Old Standard’ that had mercifully, until quite recently, fallen out of fashion. _♫_ _You are the promised kiss of springtime. That makes the lonely winter seem long._ _♪_ A chill ran down Andrew’s spine. ♫ _You are the breathless hush of evening. That trembles on the brink of a lovely song._ ♪ He was suddenly angry and afraid. ♫ _You are the angel glow that lights a star. The dearest things I know are what you are._ ♪ “You put them up to—” he started to accuse his son. ♫ _Someday my happy arms will hold you. And someday I’ll know that moment divine_. ♪ But Rupert was trembling as least as badly as he. ♫ _When all the things you are are mine._ ♪

“I came downstairs because I knew her voice,” Rupert whispered, almost to himself. “Father!” he demanded shrilly a moment later, “Why did I know her voice?” People were starting to stare again. Dowel wandered away embarrassed.

“How the devil should I know what you know or why!?!” Andrew shouted. He was not under a truth spell. He was; however, in a bad emotional state and just a bit drunk. The front door was too far. He ran out into the garden. Rupert ran after him, his little wife trotting at his heals.

~~~~~

Clara did not slow for Virgil’s shouted inquiries nor the stammering entreaties of the usher. Silently, the two Equals turned and followed her. The ballroom was already buzzing with the low-grade malevolence of social voyeurism, directionally focused on the back door into the garden, through which the host and guests of honor had evidently just fled.

When Emma and Graham Dunstan arrived in hot pursuit of Clara, pushing roughly past Virgil and Milton in their zeal to stop her, Virgil knew at once why all three had come. He commended Milton to the guardianship of heaven and rushed ahead of them to warn Rupert what was coming.

~~~~~

“Giles, what’s wrong?” Buffy asked.

“That song suffuses me with dread and regret,” he said. “The memories it brings me are almost more than I can bear.” Andrew almost put his hand to his own mouth to see how the words had managed to escape.

“Rupert…” said the warning voice of Virgil Gaudencio. As one the three Gileses looked up to see him coming out the back door and hurrying towards them.

“You were her Watcher!” Rupert exclaimed, “After Helena. Why did I know her voice?” Virgil shot a hateful look at Andrew, who looked resentfully ashamed and deeply in pain.

~~~~~

Seconds behind the Dunstan party, unseen by the distracted crowd, the last guest arrived late to the feast. Dr. Candice Braxton, an anthropologist who had once worked with Rupert Giles at a dig in Mesopotamia, had a few friends in common with he and his father and had kept up a sporadic correspondence over the years with both men. Someone invited to lengthen the guest list, a human obfuscation. She was sixty years old and happily single with nothing better to do on a Friday night than to ogle at the scandalous marriage of a casual acquaintance.

“Mr. Allenby!” she gasped, startled by the appearance of another acquaintance at her side. He had stepped from the shadow of the building into the light of the faux gas lamps bracketing the door. He was pale and unsteady on his feet. “You look terrible,” Candice told him. “Come in and sit down!”

Mr. Allenby smiled wanly. “Do you think I should?” he asked. “I have rented the place out for the evening you know.”

Candice smiled back and held up her invitation. “Please,” she said, “be my guest.”

~~~~~

Realization dawned. A wicked smile spread across Buffy’s face. “I get it!” she declared, “‘The news today is the same as it was yesterday, it just happened to different people.’”

“Young lady,” Andrew retorted angrily “you ‘get’ nothing!”

“Oooo,” she taunted “protest a little more. The louder you say it, the more convincing it gets!”

“Buffy,” Giles began correctively, having a sense of what it was she thought she’d figured out, “I don’t think there’s any reason to suggest... what you’re suggesting. Whomever my mother is or was... whatever the reason for this... insane secrecy—”

“She was,” Andrew said simply. “Your mother was the Slayer.”

Rupert’s mouth was frozen open in the act of speaking. For a second his mind was literally blank. It was like the record skipped. The thoughts and feelings that rushed back into the empty space were broken in bits and jumbled together. The cacophony started to make its own sense, like the millionth time listening to Revolution Nine.

“Dahlia Harrow?” he said disbelievingly. His father could not have meant anyone else. Even disregarding Virgil’s involvement, no other Slayer or future Slayer had been both alive and of child bearing age in 1951. Andrew nodded curtly. Rupert’s heart ached. He felt a sudden shift in perspective, which left him off balance. The received wisdom was that the Council had been left with no choice in the sad, sad case of Miss Dahlia Harrow. Suddenly, without gaining any relevant evidence bearing directly on the issue, he knew it for a lie, an excuse.

“How could you do that!?!” he demanded, his anguish boiling rapidly into rage. He felt as though he could have gripped one side of his ribcage in each hand and ripped it open to let the pain out.

“I did what was required of me,” Andrew replied in a quiet, armored voice. Buffy knew she had missed a step somewhere, something that everyone knew, but only if everyone happened to be a Watcher.

“You had no _right_!” Rupert cried from the depths of a bleeding soul.

“On the contrary, we had a ‘duty’,” Andrew corrected him sardonically.

“Like hell!” Virgil shouted, seeming as wounded as the others, missing the irony in Andrew’s tone.

“She was my _mother_!” Rupert wailed.

“AND I _LOVED_ HER!” Andrew shouted back, his own voice filled with anger and grief. His words hung in the silence. “We did what had to be done,” he added quietly, bitterly, his tone much less ironic than before, building to a tentative resolve. “The fate of the world rests with the Slayer!” he orated as one praying for conviction, hoping to find it in insistence, “She can’t just decide she’d rather grow cabbages!”

Buffy stumbled down the missing step and landed in darker, colder universe. Terrible responsibility. Terrible choices.

“You have no idea what love is!” Giles shouted, too focused on his father to register Buffy’s distress. “You’re not capable of love you... you… you _murderer_!”

“ _You_ have a damned nerve to call _anyone_ that!” said Clara Font appearing, impossibly, out of nowhere, framed by the back door of the Allenby House. There was a confusion of action as those who had been trying to prevent Clara from exiting now shifted to trying to shut her out, to contain what was sure to be an ugly scene away from the much too public gathering.

“He _killed_ my _mother_!” Giles pointed out angrily, seeming not to notice to whom he was speaking. “I ought to call the bastard a hearse!”

“By all means,” said Andrew caustically “let us cast aside reason and forbearance and do exactly as we feel! It’s worked so well for our whole family so far, hasn’t it?!”

“It’s worked a good deal better than obeying the Council’s orders!” Giles shouted back.

“And which were you doing when you killed Michael Dunstan!?!” Clara demanded.

“I never killed that evil old man!” Giles insisted indignantly. “I haven’t killed anyone remotely human since I stabbed your son to death in 1975! Oh, Merciless God!”

Clara looked quite as distressed as if she’d just been stabbed herself. Buffy didn’t look much better. Her hand crept involuntarily to her abdomen again. If no one else noticed, Giles did. “I’m sorry!” he declared fervently. “I was a villain and a fool!

“And I quite understand why you want me to have killed Dunstan, and if he is dead I’m just as glad, but I didn’t do it. I’m sorry I can’t stop saying hurtful things, but I am under a truth spell, and sorrier that I told you that. Now I need you to leave as this is all far too much negative and conflicting emotion for me to deal with at once!”

“Like hell!” Clara shouted. “Do you expect me to believe any of that?”

“Of course not!” he retorted, “You must trust me about as far as I trust my father and with as good a reason! Nor for that matter should you care what I need. I’ve certainly never taken your feelings much into account.”

“God, I wish I was dead!” Andrew grumbled.

“Hands up anybody who cares _at all_ what _he_ wants,” Buffy snarked, arms folded. It was a joke in form only. She was, Andrew realized soberingly, damn near angry enough to kill. He also realized, to his shame, that he was not really all that eager to cease to be after all. God what a wretched coward he must be to prefer even this reality to a blank incomprehensibility!

Andrew Giles knew that he was unworthy of life, yet he clutched at it greedily. It made him ill to think how casually he had plotted Buffy’s end for mere spite against Rupert. Out of resentment that ought properly have been aimed at himself. He felt more wretched still when Rupert actually raised his hand.

Giles looked at his up-stretched hand disparagingly, disdainfully, as if disappointed in it, and folded his arms defensively. “Truth dawning upon ignorance!” he declared, “No wonder I have never felt whole or safe or clean! I actually felt _guilty_! Every time I said I hated you! Every time I cursed you or wished you dead! I thought there was something wrong with _me_!”

“You’ve every right to hate me!” Andrew answered. “Go ahead!”

“But I don’t _want_ to hate you!” His son shouted back. “I want you to _love_ me! Indignity! I am embarrassed! And in front of this poor, vicious, horrid, misused and malignant old woman! Even she doesn’t deserve to have to listen to _me_ snivel!”

“ _Even I_ —” Clara began indignantly.

“Where did you learn of Michael’s murder?” Virgil demanded of her, stopping her tongue.

“Virgil, I have not killed anyone in twenty-three years!” Giles insisted. “And you believe me! Yet you are sure that he is dead. But you must hate him as much as I do! His death doesn’t bother you a bit!”

“My God,” Clara gasped, “you are under a truth spell, aren’t you!”

“Yes, I am,” Giles answered, “and terribly afraid of what you might ask me.”

“Damn it, can we not focus on the murder at hand!” Andrew demanded. “If Michael Dunstan _is_ dead—”

“Did he suffer?” Clara asked with sudden, quiet anguish. Everyone fell silent. The night held its breath. No one thought for a moment that she might be referring to Michael Dunstan.

“Yes,” Giles answered just above a whisper. “He was in excruciating pain for several minutes. He felt terrified and abandoned and unloved, by you specifically and the family in general. We both assumed Dunstan had approved his death and that you must not have minded too terribly much.”

Clara emitted a strangled sob. “Even apart from the physical violence of the act,” Giles continued, unable to stop without telling her the whole truth, “I was cruel to him. His soul was screaming, and I kicked him while he was down the way I wanted to kick my father. I used him like a punching bag because he was there. I hurt him because I wanted to hurt someone and I thought I had permission.”

Silence prevailed another moment. “I didn’t kill Michael Dunstan,” Giles repeated. “I hope none of the Watchers I am blackmailing or otherwise manipulating did. I don’t want it on my conscience though my mother was on his as much as anybody’s. I don’t consider vengeance to be a sufficient justification for murder any longer and I’m growing fairly skeptical of necessity. I’m so overwhelmed with horrifying facts right now that I hardly feel anything but a deep dull ache.”

“What do you know about Michael Dunstan’s death?” Clara asked, holding herself together and thrusting like a wounded daulist.

“Only that Virgil must know something extremely sensitive about it because of the tense way he looked in my eyes when you asked that—sorry—and that Father suspects Quentin, which would make sense—”

“RUPERT, SHUT YOUR GODDAMNED MOUTH!!!!!”Andrew shouted and would have taken a swing at him to shut him up if Buffy hadn’t stepped between them. He didn’t dare to raise his hands to her. They fell back at his sides, reminding him in their useless dangling how very pointless his existence actually was.

“BECAUSE THEN HE COULD BLACKMAIL GRAHAM THROUGH EMMA WITH THE SAME INFORMATION!” Giles shouted right over him, compelled not only to speak but to be heard, or at least, feeling so compelled. “Oh, Buffy,” he groaned, “I’ve got to get out of here before I tell them all that Peter was _his_ father! Uselessness!” he tried again to curse.

Suddenly, as might happen in a bad dream, Emma Dunstan burst from the house, her son Graham trotting at her heals, and began shouting at Clara for proclaiming a murder that which the authorities had called an accident. Clara insisted it was a murder and demanded that Virgil should acknowledge it. There was a cacophony of overlapping shouts of accusation, denial and remonstration.

“I’m going to beat Ethan Rayne with my fists!” Giles declared, his emotional response still lagging half a dramatic turn behind the ugly scene around him.

“I _told_ Peter we should have had _him_ imprisoned for the Watts murder!” Andrew declared. Everyone looked at him aghast. Everyone except for Clara Font, who was stuck in her own emotional lag and couldn’t quite care what kind of a man Andrew Giles was, let alone what Ethan Rayne deserved.

“You don’t know what it’s like!” she shouted skipping back to her own most cherished grievance, her real reason for being there, “to bring a child into the world and then to have to put him in the _ground_!”

“You have no idea what _I_ know!” Emma shouted back succumbing to angry tears, assuming quite without evidence that Clara’s shouts were still aimed at her. All of the shouting suddenly stopped. Her statement ought to have been capable of more than one interpretation, but somehow, the way her voice shook, the anguish in her eyes, the way her hand flew to her mouth as if trying to shoo the words back down her throat, the way she _looked_ at Andrew, it wasn’t.

“Bloody…vaginal secretion of the Virgin Mary have not a thing to do with hell or this shocking situation!” Giles gasped, then, fumed, “I can’t even curse properly under this frustrating spell! I know too much about words.”

“What the hell is going on now?” Buffy asked.

“Sophocles in parody!” Giles declared, “Everyone is wondering if Mrs. Dunstan has really just tacitly confessed to bearing Father’s incestuous love child and killing it.”

Emma screamed. Graham shouted at her to be calm, though he wasn’t. General shouting resumed. In the midst of it, Graham took a swing at Giles and was on the ground before Buffy knew what she was going to do about it. Emma screamed again. Her son groaned.

Suddenly, Emma wasn’t the only one screaming. The same second that everyone turned in the direction of the noise, towards the house, Buffy announced her sudden realization of an obvious fact that she had previously been too distracted to notice. “Vampires! Lots of them!”

Instinctively, the Watchers began to rush towards the source of the disturbance. Buffy had to vault over Andrew’s head to get between them and the door. All of them started to raise their voices in indignant protest, including some who should have known better.

“Backup,” said the Slayer in a voice of tempered steel. “Go get some. Watchers. Potential Slayers. Staff. Family. Everyone. And weapons. Lots of weapons.”

They hesitated. Giles looked anguished. “All of you!” Buffy shouted. “Go. Now.” She turned, ripped her long skirt up the middle so that it flapped behind her like half a cape and used the Victorian trim on the old house to scramble up to a second story window and was inside and gone.

“You heard the girl!” Giles commanded when everyone had stared at each other for much too long a moment, then, realizing some division of labor was needed, he added, “Virgil, Graham, Emma, your own House, _native_ Houses. Father Staff. Clara… Facundians and Ezarians. I’ll get the Hippolytons! Go! Now!” They went.

~~~~~

“To the stairs!” Robson shouted authoritatively. “Defend the high ground!” Hundreds of people screamed and scattered randomly. Dozens, including Robson, pulled long knives, rapiers and stakes from places of concealment. Dozens more, not all of them Watchers, sought out those objects in the room which seemed best suited for use as weapons.

A seventy-five-year-old professor of Russian literature grabbed the crooner’s microphone stand and rushed headlong into one of the inhuman, cannibalistic enemy, knocking him back from the woman he was biting so suddenly that a great gash was ripped in her throat and she fell down dead. As the demon recovered his footing, wrenched the weapon from his hands and drove him through a wall with it, Milton heard the old man shout something about Stalingrad. He headed for the stairs.

~~~~~

“How did you get in here?” Quentin asked without looking up.

“I am Primary Field Watcher,” Peter reminded him. “And the heir apparent to an Equal of the Inner Council. The security guards felt themselves outranked.”

“The first time I entered this chamber, it was on my father’s shoulders,” Quentin said. “I couldn’t have been four years old.”

“You told me only grownups were allowed in here,” Peter pointed out with a sad smile.

“Children don’t deserve to have to carry secrets,” Quentin said. After a moment of silence he added soberly, “I have done something incredibly foolish today.”

“That business in Arizona?” Peter guessed.

Quentin shook his head. “That was the foolish thing I did yesterday,” he explained dryly. “I thought Weatherby could handle a Slayer if anyone could.”

“No one can,” Peter pointed out, “if she’s forewarned and has half a brain. What did you do today?”

“I acted mainly on impulse,” Quentin evaded slightly, “but in the dozen seconds that I contemplated it, I thought I saw advantages. I didn’t want to weigh them too carefully against the consequences because the calculation might have stopped me. I didn’t want to stop. I hated him too much.”

“Out with it,” Peter insisted impatiently. “There are no children here.”

“Give this letter to Rupert Giles,” Quentin said, trying to hand his son a sealed envelope.

“Give it to him yourself!” Peter snapped, folding his arms. “I’ll not be a party to your Byzantine intrigues or your maudlin plans for wrapping up your life. Do you realize what an ass you are being? How painful and frightening your macabre declarations and cryptic confessions are to mother and I?”

“Then let me confess myself more plainly,” Quentin replied with a cool, regretful smile. “This afternoon I murdered Michael Dunstan.”

“Dear God!” Peter gasped. He shook his head. “You are trying very hard to be better off dead aren’t you! My God, you are confessing this to me so that you can kill yourself on the _excuse_ of having to protect me from the choice of concealing or divulging this information! You coldhearted son-of-a-bitch!”

Peter grabbed his father by the lapels and pulled him to his feet. He raised his hand as if to slap him. The old man blocked his strike and punched him in the jaw hard enough to send him reeling backward. Peter steadied himself, rubbing his jaw. “What game are we playing now?” he demanded. “Do you think you can make me wish you dead by picking a little fight!?!”

“You raised your hand to me, not the other way round,” Quentin pointed out sourly, retreating into a superior attitude. Peter stamped on his foot very hard. “Ah!” Quentin screamed. “Are you mad!?! You’ve just broken my toe!”

“You’ve just murdered an Equal of the Inner Council!” Peter rejoined indignantly. “You’ve been threatening all day to kill my father! I’m not sure the boundaries of sane conduct are an issue for us any longer! Dear lord in heaven! What does it take to get through to you! There’s a _reason_ why ‘people don’t do such things’! ‘Foolish’ isn’t the word for it, Father! We are talking about the cruel, needless extinguishment of life! That is more than merely foolish! It is evil! Evil, Father. That thing we are supposed to be fighting against!

“And I’ll tell you something else! If there is one thing the Catholics are right about it is suicide! It is a crime, not a punishment; a sin, not an atonement, and I am, by God, not going to have it!!! Security!!! SECURITY!!!!!” Peter shouted, and when the guards, specially trained agents of the Council, appeared he said, “Arrest this man. He has just confessed murdering Michael Dunstan.”

The two guards, both Travers could-have-beens in their twenties, looked at one another uneasily then at Quentin as if awaiting his instructions. “He is quite right,” said Quentin calmly. “I have so confessed.”

The young men looked at each other again even more uncertainly. ‘Which is Rosencrantz and which is Guildenstern?’ Peter thought giddily. But as he calmed down, he started to panic. He had just denounced his father for a capital crime. To a body that still practiced capital punishment quite literally at last check, which admittedly, had been a few decades. If, moments ago, it had seemed to him that there was method to such madness, he could not now recall what it had seemed to be.

~~~~~

Buffy sprinted past the panicked heard of party guests rushing up the stairs, vampires in hot pursuit. She hopped up on the gallery railing and took a few seconds to survey the scene below. It felt like a few seconds too long. There was a fray down there that needed leaping into. There were pockets of humans hopelessly cut off from the stairs. But the room was rapidly filling with vampires; dozens, a hundred, more. Far too many for one Slayer and thirty half-armed Watchers.

They were all coming in the front, at least. Very poor tactics. But before the humans could organize to make use of that advantage, they had circled around the crowd and blocked the back exit from the inside. There was no reopening that escape route now. Even defending the upstairs, keeping any safe place for humans to survive until reinforcements could arrive, was going to take some doing. Right now, Robson was taking the lead in doing it, standing in the middle of the staircase, shouting orders in both directions that everyone who hadn’t succumbed to blood loss or blind panic hustled to obey. Meanwhile, Milton Crowne stood at the head of the stairs, sorting the survivors into those to be armed, left to die or given medical attention. Laura Sterling seemed to be in charge of the last two categories. She did as Milton told her, without question.

In less than half a minute, Buffy had seen what she needed to see. Trying not to think about what anyone else was seeing, she tore the skirt of her gown the rest of the way off and tossed it over the side, onto the head of a red fanged vampire, which actually gave his immediate victim (a swan necked, dark-haired young woman in a bright red cocktail dress) a chance to make a break for. There was no time to see how far she actually got.

Her stiff petticoat spreading out around her like an oversized tutu, seeming like it would be no harder to fight in than a short skirt, Buffy vaulted from the gallery railing to the rail of the stairs, landing next to Morrison and staking one of the two vamps he was currently holding back with a wooden chair. The other staked himself against the chair leg that Morrison expertly positioned in his way as he lunged for Buffy.

In the four seconds of peace that ensued, Buffy ripped two of the legs from the chair, refitting it for easier use as an offensive weapon, and handed one of them and her own, sharper, stake to two barehanded defenders. “Don’t try to stab them,” she warned the determined-looking novices. “Let them jump at you.” Most humans weren’t strong enough to stake a vampire unless it did some of the work, and in a frenzy like this, they were usually happy to accommodate.

“Phones?” Buffy asked Morrison, falling in line beside him as the next wave hit.

“Cut,” he said. “Mobile in my coat pocket,” he added, indicating somewhere below and across the room with a slight tilt of his head. There was no more time to chat. Grunting and sweating, the defenders fought and held as the steady stream of refugees continued to be pulled in and pushed through their ranks and up the stairs.

Mistakes were made. Suddenly a group of vamps were in the center of the staircase. Buffy left the right flank in Morrison’s capable hands and rushed, literally, into to breach. Stakes and feet flying, she pushed them back. Without deciding to be, she was front and center. She was the gatekeeper now. Through her, the living were admitted to the citadel of life. Staking and pulling, she ripped them from the claws of their demonic pursuers and one by precious one she pushed them behind her up the stairs.

~~~~~

“It’s alright, mother,” Graham assured Emma very unconvincingly. “Just lie still, you’re going to be fine.”

“Rubbish!” she grunted, grimacing in pain with the effort of speaking. “I’m going to die here, probably within the hour. You have to leave. You have to get these people out.” The two Watchers had not made it through the garden gate before two huge vampires had come chasing them around the building and forced them to run in through the side door to the kitchen where they were now barricaded in with most of the catering staff. Emma lay on a metal countertop as a harried young waitress in a tuxedo-inspired uniform tried desperately to staunch the bleeding in her torn open left side with a table cloth.

“They’re still out there,” the chef noted worriedly, leaning against the oversized refrigerator that had been manhandled in front of the door into the corridor that led to the banquet hall. He had his ear to the wall and a butcher knife in hand. “At least one anyway,” he added. “I can hear him.”

Graham knew they could get in any time they wanted to. He had seldom seen a vampire, in the wild as it were, with certain knowledge of what he was seeing, but he had studied them enough to have a pretty good idea what they were capable of and the experience of struggling alongside half a dozen other people with knives and fists to pull his mother from the jaws of a demon hadn’t softened his opinion any. The furniture and appliances stacked against the doors and windows were not keeping the enemy out. They were being held here, saved for a time when killing them would be more convenient.

“We need weapons,” Graham said firmly. “Not knives; stakes, crosses.”

Several people laughed nervously. Several didn’t. “If we can get the legs off of that prep table,” said the nurse-waitress, “we can sharpen them with knives.”

Graham nodded. “Lay it on its top; you can kick them and stomp them loose,” he suggested to a pair of stout young men in aprons. “A long weapon is better with a strong enemy anyhow, harder for them to close on us.” The two young men looked at one another uneasily, then towards their supervisor for guidance.

“What the bloody hell are you talking about!?!” The chef demanded, taking a step towards Graham, brandishing his knife half-consciously in defense against his confusion and terror. Graham arched an eyebrow and gave him a look that said something very much along the lines of ‘Do you realize how appallingly rude and stupid it is for _you_ to be walking towards _me_ with a knife raised in your hand?’ The chef lowered his hand, embarrassed and resentful.

“Vampires,” said Emma tiredly. “And, Graham, don’t you dare contradict me, this is no time for uncertainty and denial to flourish. My son is something of a vampire expert,” she added. “You should listen to him if you value your lives.” There was silence. Everyone seemed to be having difficulty meeting one another’s eyes. The two stout young men turned the wooden table on its top and several others joined them in kicking, stomping and pulling on its legs.

“Get all the tape and string and foil or what-have-you that you can find,” Graham instructed the as yet idle remnant. “Let’s start making crosses of all these table knives. Keep the pressure on,” he instructed Emma’s attendant grimly.

Emma squeezed his hand tighter. “Don’t leave me yet,” she said. “I’m dying. I need you to hear my confession.”

“Mother, I’m not a priest…” Graham began to protest.

“Like hell you’re not!” Emma countered. “You’re just not an Orthodox Christian, and neither am I. I want you to hear my confession!”

“Alright,” Graham agreed uneasily. “I’ll take over here,” he told the nurse-waitress. “Go help the others with the crosses.”

~~~~~

“Where’s Rupert?” Robson shouted in Buffy’s ear as he reached past her to smite the head from the shoulders of a vampire who had tried to circle around her while she staked another. “And… everyone?” He was wielding either a very long knife or a very short sword pulled from somewhere beneath his suit jacket.

“Sent them to get help,” Buffy said, killing twice in the course of the sentence. Her voice was hard and cold as solid ice. She was a Slayer in combat, of course, brutal and efficient in word as well as deed, but still, something about her demeanor gave Robson an extra chill. It made him want to swing his little sword somewhere else. She seemed angry, a deep, holding in kind of angry that might or might not be related to what she was measuredly unleashing on the vampires.

Three feet in front of them, a man was killed. He dropped a proper sword. Half-armed vamps and humans lunged for it. Buffy had to throw her chair leg through the heart of the jealous vamp who would have torn apart the human victor before he could rise and wield it. Easily, without request or apology, she took Robson’s blade from what he had thought of as his firm grasp and shooed him behind her, instructing him to find some phones, to organize a general call for help. Stunned, no time to resent his disarmament, Robson tasked Milton to organize the unarmable survivors to find mobile phones and call, not the authorities, but those who could actually do them some good. Taking up a stray ski pole that had been found in some closet for want of any better symbol of authority, he went back to shouting orders and directing traffic.

~~~~~

“We were not lovers, not in any conventional sense. I was seventeen. Andrew… was not. It was the summer of 1940. The Blitz was ravaging London. Our parents knew too much about what goes on underground in the dark to feel safe hiding us in tunnels. We had our own places of refuge. One of them was a rambling old estate that belonged by that time to a Mrs. Smith, my grandfather’s cousin, though father still referred to it as ‘Aunt Katherine’s’. It had been the country home of Richard and Katherine Giles and before that of our common ancestor, James Crowne. A score of his grandchildren’s grandchildren gathered there, including all the sons and daughters of Peter Travers.

“Mrs. Smith fretted and doted over her own brood and left the rest of us to fend for ourselves, so being the oldest of all these scattered chicks I appointed myself a hen and set about keeping the rest in line. Quentin, the youngest of us all, not six until the middle of the summer, was my special charge and burden. I had him with me constantly and even had to share my bed with him. You know better than anyone alive, I suppose, what little instinct or inclination I have for mothering children. I felt trapped, suffocated and unbearably alone with my responsibilities.

“At fourteen, Andrew was the oldest boy in a world without men. I didn’t love him. I didn’t really like him very much. Instead of helping me with the younger ones, he was always fishing or climbing trees or otherwise fooling about with Patrick Sterling who was all of twelve and venerated him like a god. They were always undermining me with the children, making things even more difficult for me. I had to ordered Andrew about exactly as if I were his mother to get anything done. I felt he had a duty to help me, to be a guide and example to the younger children, a duty which he was constantly shirking, and I resented it exactly as if he were my husband. To this day I don’t know when or how the one thing led to the other, but well, there was never a hen so in need of a cock as a deathly serious and only moderately bright seventeen-year-old girl who has made herself responsible for seeing to it that the Earth spins on its axis.

“Don’t look at me like that. This is a dying confession. I hardly think this is the time to worry about decorum or to watch my language.

“It was a tedious affair if that was what it was. I remained someone Andrew would sneak and avoid so that he could go off frolicking with Pat or whomever else and leave me with all the chores to be done. The whole business was more… domestic than romantic, hardly even that. We never behaved with a great deal affection or passion towards one another even when we were making love or having criminal conversation or whatever it was we were doing. It was always quick and quiet, because Quentin was usually in the room with us, supposedly asleep.

“And then the bombardment lessened and autumn came. Andrew went back to Walsington, I enrolled in University and I thought that would be the end of it. Of course, it was not.

“I was extremely ignorant, as most proper young people were in those days, of the practical aspects of human biology, regarding as a remote risk that which was actually a virtual certainty. It took me a few months to even realize what was happening to me, and when I did, I couldn’t accept it. I wasted even more time hoping I was wrong and praying for a miscarriage.

“Finally, I knew something had to be done. I obtained a… remedy, not from a physician of course, and waited for an opportunity, for an evening when there was no one in the house but Quentin and I and he was supposed to be asleep.

“I couldn’t have been more than seven months in. I thought less, but perhaps I miscalculated. At any rate, I swallowed the preparation I’d been given and the cramps started right away. Horrible, crippling cramps, they were, but cramps nonetheless. Not what I’d imagined. I won’t say I didn’t make any noise, but I certainly wasn’t screaming in agony. It fed my delusions about my situation. This, I thought, could not be what _real_ birth pangs felt like; I was not feeling what actual _mothers_ felt.

“The cramps came and went for an hour or two, not longer, getting worse and worse with every return. I lay on my side in the floor of the upstairs bath. I didn’t want to get blood on the sheets or on the carpets in my room. Such a silly thing to be worried about. I was a silly girl.

“At last I gave it a couple of good, solid pushes—that much at least I know to do without being told—and out she came, screaming into the world. I was horrified. I’d been led to expect something still and pale and quiet, yet here was this… monstrously opinionated little person lying on the floor, red and angry and screaming at me, waving her fists, demanding as it seemed, an explanation of me for bringing her forth, unready into the world.

“I wanted this thing, this being, this alien out of my house, out of my universe. It didn’t belong there. It Didn’t fit. I was a University student. I was a Watcher Candidate. I was not an unwed mother. I refused to be.

“I picked her up, wriggling off the floor. My breasts ached and I felt a force something very much like guilt demanding that I should hold her close and make her once again a part of me, but I resisted. I refused. I was angry and I was afraid. I was afraid of these… forces that were pressing so hard to compel me against my inclination to… surrender myself to her.

“I held her out from me, both hands around her midsection, her horrid screaming head lolling brokenly to one side, the way they will if you let them. And then I screamed. I screamed in terror for my soul, because I knew what I was going to do.

“I did hold her close against my body then, because her pitiful wailing at my screaming was more than I could stand. I held her and swayed with her a little and shushed her and told her it would be alright. The state that I was in, it hardly crossed my mind that I was lying. I had made my resolution and I was firm in it. I meant to kill her, and yet at the same time, knowing that, I felt her suddenly no longer an alien, no longer an enemy. She was my companion in this… calamity, my sister sufferer, almost a comrade in arms.

“When she was calmed and quieted, I put my hand over her face and held her nose and mouth shut. Her eyes flew open, round and wide and I turned my face away. It took such a small amount of force. It wasn’t as though she could have resisted me. Without the breath to scream, she couldn’t even object. She kicked her legs and flailed her arms no more forcefully than she had done when she was lying on the floor. It was all that she had the power to do; she couldn’t even direct their flailing. I pitied her, but not enough to do as she required of me.

“When her arms and legs had been still for some time, I took my hand away. She did not look like a sleeping baby. Her eyes were wide and blank. There was blood on her face. I’d broken her tiny nose. She looked, I thought, very much like a murder victim.

“I sat there with her on the floor for the longest time, horrified. I wished the Earth would fall into the sun, but it didn’t, at least, not fast enough. Quentin came in, peeping his worried, well-meaning little face around the bathroom door. He was terrified by the sight of us; there was blood everywhere. I was still bleeding terribly. But he was also excited and curious the way little children often are to see a baby, wanting to know if he could hold it, where it had come from, etc., etc.

“Finally, I snapped at him and told him that it was my baby, that I had just killed her and that I was going to kill him too if he didn’t shut his mouth and keep it shut. Imagine saying something like that to a little child! With a bloody corpse in my arms, no less. He wept and wailed and locked himself in his room. Well, I can hardly say I blame him, but it was very upsetting at that particular moment in time. And of course, my father chose that exact moment to return home unexpectedly, and the rest you know.

“So there you have it, all my worst sins, all my worst secrets. I seduced a child, murdered my daughter and scarred my poor little brother’s infant psyche no doubt beginning the process of making him the horrid person he is today. I’ve repented and repented all of this in my heart so many times, but the burden of my guilt refuses to be lifted. I don’t know what I hoped to gain by telling you this, but whatever it is, I don’t think I’ve gotten it. I am dying with a burden on my soul, and I don’t know how to be rid of it. I don’t know how to let go of it.

“I forgive you,” Graham said, squeezing his mother’s hand. What else could he say?

But Emma only shook her head. “No,” she told him. “I don’t deserve to be forgiven.”

~~~~~

Finally, the number of vampires was shrinking instead of growing. It seemed no more waited to come in. Still, there were nearly a hundred of them. There were maybe four hundred people upstairs now and another fifty deployed on the staircase itself. There were probably fifty bodies littering the dance floor and strewn among the wreckage of the banquet tables and the bandstand. There were about a hundred and fifty living people visible below, barricaded in corners, behind piles of debris, fending off the few vampires that were not attacking the stairs. That left about a fifty trapped in or hopefully escaping through other rooms.

“Back!” shouted a commanding female voice near the front entry. “Hold!” It was Wilhelmina Travers. By clear prearrangement, the vampires ceased to throw themselves at the stairs, fell back and clustered in three groups at the front and back entrances and the hallway leading to the kitchens.

There was a mass stir and murmur of hopeful uncertainty among those trapped below as they realized that they no longer faced enemies directly blocking their path to the citadel. “Nobody move!” Buffy shouted, seeing the trap for what it was.

When he looked for it, Robson saw it too. “Nobody move!” he echoed. To his relief, they obeyed. Better still, they looked to him, not just to Buffy, before generally nodding and murmuring their assent. If a hundred mostly harmless humans had rushed into the middle of the floor and a hundred vicious vampires had fallen upon them from all sides, their fifty best armed and best organized brothers and sisters, who now held the staircase, would have been compelled to plunge into their midst to render aid, breaking their defense and losing control of the high ground. As it was, Robson seemed to have control of the situation, at least for the moment.

More than happy to leave him to it, Buffy ran, through a crowd that parted for her and closed behind her, up the stairs. “Hey! Where’s she going?” a vampire lieutenant shouted loudly. “If she gets away, what’s the point?” Wilhelmina ordered him to hold his tongue. While everyone else waited, Buffy hurried. The ball was in the vampires’ court and they had to know there were more humans coming. The break in the battle could not last long.

When she reached the top of the stairs, Buffy motioned Milton through an archway into a large den/study/living room type space where Laura and her subordinates were tending the wounded. “Who here knows the most about this house?” she asked Milton quietly, now that they were out of sight and (hopefully) hearing of the vampires. “Back stairs, things like that?”

Milton shook his head. “Most of the upstairs is the actual residence,” he explained. “It has a separate entrance. We’re bricked off from it. Only the grand staircase comes up here now.

“Then we need to start getting people out the windows,” Buffy told Milton and Laura firmly. “I’ll look for the best places to climb down, but we’re only one floor up. Most of these people are better off jumping than staying here and trying to fight if those things get upstairs.”

~~~~~

“I say, Phillip, might I have a word?” Henry Claverton murmured in Robson’s ear with as much pretended calm as he could manage. His hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t light his cigarette.

“A quick one,” Robson said calmly, lighting it and handing it back.

“Would you mind telling me what in the blazing fires of hell is going on here?” he asked.

Robson sighed. “We’re being besieged by vampires,” he explained grimly. There hardly seemed any point in denying it. “This,” he added, darkly amused, “would be that ‘Council crap’ that Milton and I ‘fart around with.’ Rather more of it than we usually see all at once, I admit.”

“Holy shit!” Claverton gasped, giving up all pretense of aplomb. “The fucking conspiracy nuts aren’t Goddamned nutty enough!”

“Probably not,” Robson agreed calmly.

“Are the Freemasons really in control of the government?” Claverton asked.

Robson smiled. “Not as far as I know,” he said. “And I do think our man in the Government would have mentioned it.”

~~~~~

“Julian! Julian! For the love of our people, Julian! Open up!” Giles shouted. “I know you are in there! It’s an emergency!” He banged on the door even louder than before. “I’m going to go on shouting until they hear me, metaphorically speaking, all the way to Downing Street!” he threatened, “and if you do not get down here promptly, that’ll be the least of your worries! And don’t you dare make me shout the reasons why, because I’m really becoming desperate enough to do it and I’m angry enough at the whole murderous institution right now!”

“For God’s sake, man,” Julian hissed, finally opening the door, “come inside and quit shouting before the police are called. What are you on about?”

“Vampires,” Giles explained with quiet gravity, not budging from the front steps. “Attacking the reception en masse. Buffy sent me to fetch reinforcements and weapons. That and the fact I just found out the Council killed my mother, so I’m quite upset as you might imagine. And I am under a truth spell and terrified my wife is dying right now so I really don’t know what to expect from myself, but if you will give me your solemn word to muster and arm your House to reinforce us and lend me a bow and ammunition, I’d like to be getting back.”

‘… _and thousands more weep than ever laughed at it.’_ Julian silently chastised himself. He should have known better. He had known better, but he had gone along with it anyway. “How many?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Giles admitted. “It sounded like a lot, but we took off in the other direction. Someone to each House, and father to alert the Permanent Staff, and for pity’s sake, man, don’t you give a stray wisp of compassion and regret for my mother’s death?”

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” Julian assured him. “The Council hasn’t ordered the death of an Englishwoman since—Oh Good God! Well… I must say, that explains a few things.”

Suddenly Giles was impatient with the trademark Wyndham-Pryce density. “Look, have you got a crossbow I can borrow or not!?!” he demanded. Julian reached into the coat closet next to the door and handed him one along with a quiver of thirty wooden bolts. Donning his jacket, the Deputy Foreign Minister reached a little more deeply into the closet and came out with a sword, sheath and buckler. Grabbing a set of car-keys, he called upstairs to his wife, instructed her to call forth all of the Watchers of the House together with any of their Potentials or Candidates having enough training and confidence to be of any use and to send them, armed and in great haste to the Allenby House, and went out into the night with Rupert Giles.

~~~~~

Pulling a sword on him wasn’t enough. Darby Kane actually had to hit the Equal of the House of Iakobus across the face with the flat of his blade to stop him from physically attacking the Director of Council Personnel again. Stunned but by no means felled, Mr. Travers staggered back but regained his footing quickly. “Please, Gentlemen!” the young man begged, “Let us have peace and calm. There is enough blood shed!”

“I never said a goddamned word about your sister!” Mr. Giles shouted from the other side of Kane’s partner, Winston Clark, who had his sword drawn also. “Except that she too was dispatched to find you and get help for this present crisis.” Peter Travers had gone to do exactly that the moment Andrew had arrived. He was upstairs at the switchboard, controlling and dispatching with the help of the building’s other two night guards and Ms. Carney, the designated resident, until Communications Staff could arrive and free them to join the fray.

“Shall I speak further on the subject of bloodshed?” Kane demanded, terrified, as he watched Mr. Travers biding and calculating rather than giving up. “Please, Sir, if you must kill, go kill vampires!” Mr. Travers shot Mr. Giles a hateful look and turned towards the exit.

Andrew filed Kane’s little speech and Clark’s lack of reaction to it under ‘further evidence that Quentin Travers murdered Michael Dunstan’ and went upstairs to help Peter. “Now that the switchboard is in your capable hands…” the younger man tried to excuse himself.

“No,” Andrew answered him curtly. “You two go,” he told the guards, “Gather all of the weapons we have here and distribute them there as people arrive. Take Kane and Clark with you. Madam, please go and prepare something to eat; we shall have the whole Staff up here soon enough, and I expect it may be a very late night for all of us.” Ms. Carney looked as though she wished to protest but didn’t dare. “We need to talk,” Andrew said to Peter the moment they were alone. “And quickly, before the whole Staff really does begin to arrive.”

“My father is near suicide because of your son!” Peter informed him, eyes blazing, no time to mince words.

“He’s doing what we all have always done,” Andrew replied coolly. “What we need to talk about is not tactics but outcomes. There’s no counting votes until we see who is dead or alive, but I hope to make you understand that you and I ought to have the same goals for any number of reasons, some of which even a young idealist may credit as legitimate.”

“Excuse me,” Peter said, and completed a call to Robson’s wife while he thought about what Andrew was saying. Lilith had already heard from Katherine Wyndham-Pryce. Her son and youngest daughter were on their way to the Allenby House, their older sisters to the Council building. Her home, like the Travers’ house, was becoming a collection point for children whose parents were answering the call to arms. The thought was grim and sobering. Peter pictured his own children, their little faces contorted with horror and confusion trying to comprehend his death. The thought made him angry, as much at his father as at the enemy. Paradoxically, it made him impatient to be done here, to join the battle.

“I don’t actually think this is a terribly good time to discuss Council politics,” he said to Andrew, sounding snide and superior without really meaning to, starting to dial again without hanging up. “We do have something a bit more important going on at the moment, don’t you agree?”

Andrew reached across the desk and aborted Peter’s phone call, tapping the receiver cradle with his fingers. “No,” he said gravely, “I don’t.”

~~~~~

“All Quiet on the Western Front?” Buffy asked Morrison quietly, coming out of the casualty ward.

He gave her an odd look, then smiled. “For now,” he said, “but they’re getting restless down there. On both sides. Up here too actually.”

“Any word yet on…” Buffy noticed several vampires staring at them, straining to hear. The things had ears like bats. She pulled Morrison through the doorway into Laura’s territory. The room was shockingly near empty. He opened his mouth and closed it again as he watched three people at a time climb quietly out the windows down ropes of rugs and drapes on the corner of the street side farthest from the front door. Milton Crowne was quietly, slowly, ushering more people into the room through side rooms. By and large they were the elderly, the frail and the confused, those who could not be expected to fight.

“They’re going to figure this out and stop us soon,” Buffy whispered. “But we’ve gotten about thirty out so far. Which means we’ll have cops showing up to get killed soon, unfortunately. Any word on reinforcements?”

“Everyone’s on their way,” Morrison told her. “We’re in touch by mobile with the Council building and with Nick Steepleton, who’s going to be taking command outside. The plan is to get here as soon as they can, park along the parallel streets and then muster in the garden for an assault on the back door to make an escape route for the humans downstairs, and ultimately for the rest of us, while leaving the vampires the option of retreating out the front as Sun Tzu would advise. They think they’ll have enough to start in another ten to twenty minutes.”

Buffy shook her head. “They’re not going to retreat,” she argued. “This is to the death. They’ll just circle around and trap us in the middle again. Besides, I doubt everyone stays cool another ten or twenty minutes.” Morrison made no response. “Whose brilliant plan is this anyway?” she asked.

“Nick and Phillip hatched it over the phone a minute ago,” Morrison said. “Not the craziest thing those two have ever cooked up, but close, I admit. It’ll either be a quick success or a slow disaster.”

“Any word from Giles?” Buffy asked impatiently She was ready to be done with this conversation and go have it out with Robson, but she didn’t want to talk about her husband in front of the vampires or to wait until she could get Robson alone to find out.

“According to Katherine, he and Julian headed this way ten minutes ago,” Morrison answered, “should be here any time. They didn’t bring a phone, so they won’t know the plan unless they happen to meet someone who does as they approach, which is likely enough, actually.”

Privately, Buffy thought that Giles would never go along with such a stupid plan, especially in the anti-going-along, fuck-the-Council headspace he was bound to be in right now. She just wished she had a clue what he was going to do instead. Praying that whatever it was he wouldn’t get himself killed, she went to find Robson. He was at the head of the stairs, leading from the rear but not by much, like a good general. She motioned him to follow her through a doorway. He shook his head, didn’t budge and went back to what he was doing, scrawling notes on a pad and handing them to a girl with a phone who ducked into another room to relay the message. Buffy gave him a look that had stricken many a monster dumb and motioned again for the doorway. He looked very troubled and his hand shook a little, but he kept scrawling.

“I can’t leave,” he hissed as she approached. “Even for a moment. Our people need to see me here. Especially the ones trapped down there.”

Buffy hated that he was right, but he was. She took his pen and wrote, ‘Your plan is crap. We have to hit them from ~~both~~ all three sides.’ Robson shook his head. Buffy held out the pen, but he didn’t elaborate. People were staring at them. So were vampires. Buffy cursed silently. Robson was the leader, there was no why to that anymore. Publicly fighting with him, no matter who was right, especially if she won, would only unsettle things more. She would just have to take care of the front door on her own. Considering that there was only one of her, that really sucked. So she had better get started.

~~~~~

Julian parked on the cross street a block up. “We need to find the others,” he said, presuming we are not the first ones here.”

“You do that,” Giles said. “I’m going to try to find my way in and to the second floor where this bow can do some good. If I know Robson, he’ll have staked out the high ground right away.”

“Well I certainly don’t think we ought to separate,” Julian fretted. “We are vulnerable enough as it is.

“Then come with me,” Giles said indifferently, giving less than zero respect to his rank. “And be quiet.” Considering the state he was in and his well-earned reputation, Julian didn’t think it would be prudent to argue with him. He followed. They kept to the shadows more to avoid the gaze of curious bystanders than anything. Vampires could see into shadows as well as anywhere if they cared to look.

By the back garden gate of the small museum next door they came face to face with Nicholas Steepleton. Julian was so startled that he let out a little cry, raised his sword and would have slashed him across the face had not Giles stopped his hand. Steepleton clasped a hand briefly over Julian’s mouth and held a finger to his lips. Giles and Steepleton exchanged the look of frosty acknowledgment which is the special greeting of former friends. A mass of human forms slowly resolved themselves from the darkness, about forty armed persons, including several shockingly young girls and a few boys not much older.

“How many around front,” Giles asked Steepleton very quietly, having to lean in much too close, still on the lookout for any response to the noise Julian had made. Steepleton shook his head. At first Giles thought he had misunderstood. He asked for clarification and got it, with terse, quiet impatience. “That’s a terrible plan,” Giles whispered. “Your as big a fool as ever!”

“Truth spell,” Julian explained with quiet apology, feeling linked to Giles relative to Steepleton since they had just arrived together.

“You outrank him,” Giles hissed at Julian, having no patience for the oversensitivity of a man who had not two days earlier called him a pedophile and a murderer, which was only half true and much less than half fair in light of all the circumstances. “Change the plan.” Julian refused.

“I’m surrounded by fools,” Giles murmured, then struck off on his own. They didn’t dare call after him to stop. He circled around the building in back of the Allenby House and approached it from the other side, assuming the Steepleton group really had aroused enough awareness for the vampires to expect an approach from that direction. Near the front corner of the house he came upon a group of people climbing down the side on makeshift ropes, quietly but not quietly enough. The sight cheered him greatly. It was proof positive that the vampires were a thrown together amateur force with no clue how to keep watch on their perimeter.

As an old woman finished climbing down one of the ropes, Giles started up. He was nearly in the window facing a bandaged, blistered and seething Laura Sterling when he heard a heart wrenchingly familiar voice call out from the roof. “Hey you! Yeah you! The big ugly one. Up here!” Uttering a few syllables that were meant as curses, Giles climbed back out the window, edged his way around to a drain pipe and scrambled the few feet up.

“What the foolishness are you doing?” he hissed in Buffy’s ear.

She gave him a brief, one armed hug. “Preempting Robson’s stupid battle plan,” she whispered, “Or giving it a chance to work.”

Giles started to level his bow at the one vampire who actually seemed to be on guard outside the front door. Buffy put her hand on his. “Wait for it…” she crooned quietly. “Now!” Giles shot the vampire through the heart just in time for two others to come out and see. He shot each of them, dusting one and wounding the other in the left shoulder just in time for half a dozen more to witness that and dusted two of those before they all hurried back inside. Four kills with five bolts, not bad. Twenty-five rounds left.

Now they would think twice about rushing out the front door en mass to circle around back and cut off Steepleton. Hopefully, Steepleton would also think twice about a headlong assault now that he knew, or ought to know the enemy wasn’t about to retreat. But something bothered him. “What were you planning to do if I hadn’t happened along?” he hissed.

“Taunt them until they climbed up the building to fight me then kill them quickly enough that they could never get more than two or three up here at once,” Buffy explained with smiling, almost chirpy bravado tilting her head girlishly, “sort of like King Kong.”

“Idiot,” Giles mumbled shaking his head, but he said it with a great deal of concern and affection.

~~~~~

“Goddamned bastard!” Steepleton cursed quietly. “I hope he falls and breaks his neck!” ‘Your friend is undermining our strategy. Force at 45, growing. Advise,’ he scrawled on a slip of paper. A boy of about sixteen set about texting the message. The reply came back half a minute later. ‘Extra weapons? Send up by window. BOWS! Hold til 60, then report.’ Skiff did what he was told. He sent Kane, Clark, Winston and Bell, the four guards from the Council building, around by the rout Rupert Giles had gone and Mildred Robson with them, with instructions for her to form the top collection point inside the window and afterward to stay and find her father.

She gave him a displeased look but obeyed. They both know that he was trying to keep her out of the direct and dangerous assault on the back door. They both also knew that when bolts started flying inside the Allenby House and the vampires reacted to that, where she was going wouldn’t be a hell of a lot safer. Uncle Skiff had to remind himself pretty hard that Mildred wasn’t a little girl anymore. Somehow, he didn’t quite believe it, but he didn’t dare try to send her home. A fourth of his force was made up of boys and girls younger than Mildred.

He’d had enough trouble convincing Julian that he was too important, too valuable to the Council, to risk being killed or arrested. It was a harder sell because his son was there and doing his very, very best, which was not that great, to be brave and steel himself for mortal combat. Poor Wesley kept explaining—as if convincing others that he was not out of his depth would somehow make it true—that he had already face _two_ vampires. Under controlled circumstances of course. Finally, a lad of twenty had hissed at him to shut up and sit down as he was scaring the little girls who had to fight alongside him.

After a shocking but merciful delay of nearly half an hour from the first shrieks of terror, Steepleton heard the unwelcome sound of police sirens blaring as half a dozen vehicles approached. It was not a great time to be hiding in the bushes with swords and cross-bows and an even worse time to be mounting an armed assault on an uptown banquet facility. Their numbers had swelled to fifty, not counting the five at the window. There were a dozen police within a fifty yards of them now. He had no idea to what extent they were armed. Suddenly, the police registered the activity at the front corner of the building, decided they had localized the source of the problem and swarmed. Soon ten of them were occupied with taking weapons and prisoners back to their cars, including Mildred Robson. The eleventh policeman circled around to the front of the house, leaving only one in the side yard, who was talking into a radio.

‘In in 15 sec,’ Skiff texted his old friend. He didn’t wait for a response. His small force vaulted the low garden wall and attacked, ignoring the isolated officer’s shouts of protest and alarm. As the fifty fought their way in through a mass of vampires, swords and fangs flying, the two officers from the side and the front circled around back and more began to approach.

One policeman got too close to an overexcited fourteen-year-old Bengali girl who had been bought from her parents nearly two years earlier under the false belief that she was to become a wealthy man’s sex slave. She felled him with a quarter staff and turned brandishing the weapon to become a formidable rear guard all on her own. When another enterprising copper got around her, he grabbed Wesley by the wrist and shouted that he was under arrest and so were the rest of them also. Whirling, panicked, training running on automatic, Wesley punched the man in the face with a fist that happened to be holding a stake. The butt of the wooden weapon caught the peace officer in the temple and sent him sprawling on the ground, bleeding and unconscious. At the sight of what he had done, Wesley screamed, and promptly fainted.

~~~~~

When Steepleton’s fifty humans attacked the rear door, Wilhelmina’s thirty vampires stationed in that location were ready for them. What they weren’t ready for was the sudden rain of crossbow bolts from the gallery above. Or the fact that this did not mean they could now rush out the front door without being subjected to crossbow fire. Or the appearance of the Slayer in the midst of those trying to flee by the front door, killing them in ones and two as they came out while the unseen bowman dispatched any who offered her a serious threat of death or otherwise got past her. Or for the sudden surge of unarmed humans into the middle of the room cutting the other fifty-something-and-falling vamps off from those fighting in the rear. Or for the sudden appearance of a score more humans from the kitchen corridor with long-stakes and crosses led by a balding Traversy-looking gentleman who could have been a stock broker.

“What else could go wrong!” Wilhelmina muttered, exasperated.

“Now!” Robson shouted from on high, and the veteran defenders of the stairs rushed down into the mêlée, fifty more recruits from among the refugees taking their place.

~~~~~

Wesley Wyndham-Pryce opened his eyes and tried to understand why he was lying in wet grass and looking up at the sky. As the sound of the police officer groaning to life next to him rose above the general roaring that he suddenly recognized as the noise of battle, he remembered. Moaning, cursing his luck and his weakness, Wesley got quickly to his feet. The girl with the staff was keeping the police from entering the back door through which the last of Steepleton’s forces were just disappearing. Because she needed help, Wesley found himself helping her. The officers were brave and professional. The only way to keep them back was to break their arms and legs.

As he contemplated the very high probability that both he and his young companion would be shot or arrested within the next quarter of an hour, that any life they were lucky enough to experience after tonight would begin with a lengthy stay in prison, that he was not the sort of person who could simply make the best of a lengthy stay in prison, Wesley turned to the girl and shouted, “We are better off inside. If they follow us in, it’s their problem!” The girl nodded. Glancing back over their shoulders to be sure they were approaching the backs of humans and not the front of vampires, the two backed into the Allenby House. The officers, backed off and tended their wounded.

As a mass, the mob of humans armed and unarmed pushed the vampires towards the front door. Those few that could get at the humans were doing a lot of killing, but it wasn’t enough. Most of the front group of vampires were surrounded by vampires and being pushed by a pressure, the source of which they could not touch, towards the front entryway, towards the Slayer. The humans could not retreat or even halt if they had wanted to. The battle of the garden door was at their backs and as they fled from it, they pressed their luckless comrades forward or if they turned and fought in it, they drew defensive reprisals from the rear group of twenty-something-and-falling vampires, increasing the forward pressure even more.

Everyone ignored the shouts of the overwhelmed police begging them all to surrender. There were more of them coming they warned desperately, this time with guns. “Good,” Wilhelmina muttered. They were bound to kill a few humans, maybe even the Slayer, or at least make her take cover and stop blocking the door. But it wouldn’t happen soon enough. Hating to do it, knowing that once they hit open ground a lot of her callow, disillusioned troops would disappear, Wilhelmina struck at the obvious weak spot, the only escape from the pressure, the kitchen corridor. She led the charge herself, making a point to kill the leader, her seeming kinsman, first. His horrified followers broke and ran for the side door.

“To the front!” Wilhelmina shouted as her dwindling but newly heartened force of forty-something galloped down the corridor stomping the fleeing humans to death. “Kill the SLAYER!”

As the cool night air hit them, a big oak tree of a vampire shouted something in French that from context, tone and cadence Wilhelmina roughly translated as ‘Fuck this!’ Heedless, in far too deep to change course if she had wanted to, which she did not, Wilhelmina ran to the front of the building. A score of vampires followed. The rest scattered into the night. The humans now pouring out the side door did the same. The growing force of two dozen police encamped across the street fired warning shots in the air and demanded again that everyone stay where they were. Screaming and running increased. Those humans who had meant to leave by the front now that no vampires blocked their path joined the mass exodus down the corridor.

~~~~~

By the time Peter arrived on the scene, or as near as he could get, police had cordoned off the streets and there was no way of approaching the Allenby House by vehicle from any side. Turning back seemed more productive than being arrested. He called in to the Council Building and was told that at last word the battle was nearly over and near enough a victory though there had been death and injury aplenty. Peter was on the point of going in search of his father, whom as far as anyone knew had never arrived, when a rifle shot cracked the night, then another. The battle certainly didn’t sound ‘over.’

“Oh, to hell with it,” he said. He parked where he was and went stalking across the neighborhood, through gardens and over hedges to the Allenby House.

~~~~~

Seeing what was coming at her, Buffy ducked inside the vestibule and quickly staked the first two vamps who rushed in after her. Giles got four more with his bow before they sheltered under the front eaves of the house. By Buffy’s admittedly distracted count he should have about five or six rounds left. Hoping he had sense enough to get off the damned roof before he got himself shot, Buffy fell back to the doorway between the vestibule and the banquet hall. The scene within was one of chaos and carnage. Pushing past the crowd of fleeing civilians Buffy found the pocket of active battle where a shrinking but still deadly dozen vampires were trapped between Steepleton’s and Robson’s forces and joined the fray, lobbing heads with Robson’s little sword while he commanded, center staircase, with his ski pole.

Buffy matched the army kill for kill and in five minutes the enemy were dust. “I’s not over!” She shouted up at Robson amongst the sunned and relieved murmuring. “There’s still ten or fifteen out front!”

“Soldiers to the front!” Robson shouted. “Hold at the vestibule! Civilians out the back, not the side!” for the most part, he assumed, people knew who they were.

~~~~~

Giles did not come down from the roof when the police started shooting. He stooped behind a chimney and stayed put. He didn’t know if the vampires would expose themselves to fire from this vantage point again, but someone needed to be ready if they did. The hundred or more well-armed fighters inside the building certainly didn’t need his help. They had Buffy.

Giles’ patience soon paid off. A handful of minutes after Buffy had disappeared inside, Wilhelmina shouted, “Get their guns!” And the full baker’s dozen of them rushed into the street to charge the police. Past the point of warning, several officers fired their rifles. Several vampires were hit but only one staggered and fell because of it. Giles shot him and three others through the heart, but that was the extent of his supply of ammunition. He wished he’d known the length of the lull in advance. He probably could have found more ammunition.

Suddenly a fifth vampire exploded. Then a sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth in rapid succession. An eternity after they had sprung into the street, the four survivors reached the police barricade and dove behind it. If a band of humans had been ripped apart like that, Giles would have said that their only remaining concern would be to seek safety. But vampires were a vengeful lot, and he could already hear them fighting the officers for their weapons and winning. And one of the survivors was Wilhelmina Travers. He went to warn Buffy.

~~~~~

Quentin stood on the roof of the Land Rover that he had taken the liberty of driving from the Council Building without actually knowing to whom it belonged, lowered his wife’s repeating bolt gun and cursed. Mindful of the fact that he was not as young as he used to be, he climbed down carefully via the hood as he had climbed up although the rear would have been better shielded from the probable direction of gunfire.

Circling around to the rear corner of the vehicle nearest the house, crouching down in the street, he waited in the hopes that the vampires would break cover as soon as they had their rifles and cross the open street to attack the front of the house again. They began their attack by firing a couple of volleys at both the roof and the Land Rover, but they didn’t shoot any lower than the windshield. Less than a minute later, they charged at the house bearing rifles and riot shields. Quentin let them get into the middle of the street before he stood and shot two of them expertly through the back to the heart. Wilhelmina Travers and her last surviving minion turned and raised their rifles. Quentin heard their reports, but even as primed as he was to expect that very sound, didn’t have time to process what it was.

Peter had just crept through the hedge, finally reaching the front lawn of the Allenby House itself when he heard the shots. He turned in time to see his father fall forward, face down into the street. Peter didn’t dare understand what he was seeing. He ducked back behind the hedge, as if it could protect him from a rifle and raised his bow. One of the vampires, the tall female, had on a helmet and a riot shield slung across her back as well as held in front of her. The other moved the same instant that Peter loosed his bolt on him, taking it in the nape of his neck, just above the left shoulder. Peter knocked another round in his bow, hands shaking, expecting to be killed at any time. By the time he raised his weapon they had disappeared inside.

Peter leapt through the hedge to follow but two strong men grabbed him by the arms, lifted him off his feet, pushed him to the ground and cuffed his hands behind him. “You are under arrest,” one of the officers informed him, “on suspicion of… well, damn near everything we’ve got.”

An army of police in riot gear swarmed into view on every side. “Please,” Peter begged, seeing the hopelessness of seeking any other means of help. “My father. He’s been shot.”

~~~~~

Buffy and Robson stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway from the banquet hall to the vestibule, a hundred armed volunteers at their backs, fully a third of whom had been blissfully ignorant of the reality of demons in the world only an hour ago. When they heard the report of rifles again, closer than before, a murmur of horror went through the crowd, but they did not break ranks. Death was all around them. They were ready to face it. Ten or fifteen vampires was a lot, even for a hundred men and women, but these men and women had seen more, and conquered them.

 _They’ve got the guns but/We’ve got the numbers!_ Such a tight bottle neck was not to their advantage Robson suddenly realized. “Everyone to my right,” he commanded, “out the side door and around to your left; everyone back of the stairs, out the back door and to your right! Flank ‘em! The rest, forward!”

The remaining force began to serge forward as commanded, the others to circle, but only Buffy and Robson and three or four others had entered the vestibule by the time Wilhelmina and her last surviving toady burst through the door. No one had yet gotten behind them. This forward group, in a position to see what was happening, instinctively dodged to the sides and shouted an incoherent noise of warning as the vampires raised their rifles and fired, meaning to shoot Buffy and Robson but not adjusting their aim adroitly enough in these tight quarters. They could hardly help but hit someone. A woman within slumped dead against her companions and a young man screamed in pain.

Buffy grasped the barrel of Wilhelmina’s rifle in her left hand, gripping her stake in her right, and wrenched it from her. She had been holding it by the trigger lock like a handgun to bear her shield in the other hand and didn’t have a good grip. Tossing the firearm aside, Buffy swung a left hook at Wilhelmina’s face. She raised her shield and the diamond driven at the tip of the one-Slayer-power blow cracked it into a spider web pattern. The shield shattered as Wilhelmina used it to thrust Buffy backwards and then let go, throwing the Slayer into the crowd and raining Plexiglas over them. Meanwhile Robson and the others had tackled the male vampire and dragged him to the floor, where he shot two rounds into the ceiling before succumbing to the crush and being staked by the force of several human bearing down upon Robson’s arm as he held the weapon to his heart.

Wilhelmina punched her way through the ceiling and disappeared. “I got this!” Buffy declared and climbed up after her. Robson’s forces mounted the staircase, ready to come unbidden to Buffy’s aid. But they were in the wrong part of the house.

Stake at the ready, Buffy crept through the dark apartment, listening for the furtive sounds of a vampire lying in ambush. Suddenly, silently, Wilhelmina leapt down onto her head and tried to dig her fangs into her scalp. The Slayer sprang backwards, slamming the vampire against the wall. It hurt like hell, so she did it again, figuring the vamp was taking a lot of punishment.

Wilhelmina tried to bite down again, this time on the side of Buffy’s head, but the Slayer tossed her head and smacked her in the mouth with her hard skull. Twisting Wilhelmina’s own tightly gripping hands around, like they were dancing some kind of reel, Buffy faced her. The demon snarled, grinning fangs inches from her throat. Suddenly, Buffy took a long step back as if startled, as if on the verge of panic, trembling a little, making a tiny noise of distress in the back of her throat. Wilhelmina’s grin broadening, she inhaled deeply, half closing her eyes, savoring the moment. Her right eye was closed for good by a left diamond to the face the instant before her left eye was widened momentarily by a right stake to the heart.

It was Buffy’s turn to grin. “Sucker,” she laughed, brushing the dust from her hands.

“YOU IN THERE, ALL OF YOU!” someone shouted through a megaphone, “ABANDON YOUR WEAPONS AND COME OUT THE FRONT DOOR WITH YOUR HANDS UP! THE PARTY’S OVER!”

Buffy could have gone out a window and away over the rooftops. She could have found the resident’s entrance made a run for it cross-country. Both of those seemed like great ways to get shot by the police. Of course, British cops, from what she understood anyway, weren’t nearly as gun happy as the LAPD, but there were a lot of them out there, and they were having a pretty rough night. It would not be the least bit strange if they decided that it was time for a little quick and dirty retributive justice. Besides, she wasn’t about to leave without Giles.

~~~~~

When Giles came to, he was lying on the lawn between the garden gate and the side door. A man lay beside him breathing laboriously, gurgling and wheezing. He turned his head to see the battered face of Virgil Gaudencio, even more battered than it had been an hour before. 

“What a frightful evening,” Giles said, his tone cheerfully sardonic. Virgil smiled weakly at his heavy sigh.

“Yes, lovely,” he agreed with what the younger man had tried to say. “I always wanted to be a seventy-three-year-old quadriplegic. The blood in my lungs is just a bonus. Vampire. Bugger tried to snap my neck, hashed the whole thing up. Amateurs(!) You?”

“Oh, I fell off the roof trying to climb back in the window. As it happens, being seventeen years old is not contagious. Broken pelvis is the worst of it, I think. That and a moderate concussion, of course, but I’m getting rather used to those. I’ll live if nothing comes along and kills me before someone scoops me up. In fact, I can probably crawl off in search of help if you’d like. I doubt if I’ll die from doing that, and it would save you the embarrassment of listening to me beg to hear everything I can never really know about my mother. With any luck, you’ll be dead before I get back and never have to talk about it at all.”

“No, stay,” Virgil rasped, “fate seems to be conspiring very hard to give us this opportunity to chat. I should hate to tempt it to do anything yet more coercive.”

“I’d be more convinced of that if you were the one under the truth spell,” Giles tried to joke without saying anything that wasn’t exactly what he felt.

“When have I ever lied to you?” Virgil replied sardonically.

“Twenty-four hours a day for roughly forty-seven years, apparently,” Giles pointed out tiredly, “and yes, I am aware that that was more or less your point. When was I born, exactly? Or where for that matter?”

“In the winter of 1950 to 1951, somewhere near Vancouver. British Columbia. That’s honestly all I know. That was when she ran from us the first time, so nobody really knows.” Virgil paused for a ragged gulp of air. “Everything they say about her is a lie!” he declared with quiet fervor. “Or at least a twisted, self-serving orthodox delusion. She was a good person and a fine Slayer. Stubborn, but probably not stubborn enough. Of course, no one could out stubborn Helena Giles. God that woman was a terror!”

“I don’t disagree with you,” Giles admitted, “but it makes me angry and afraid when you speak about Grandmother that way. I don’t want to lose her. Oh, what a horribly telling thing to say! I don’t want the murder to be her fault. I’d almost rather it was Mother’s, that it was some fault of hers that drove the Council to it.”

“Every wrong she ever did the Council drove her to,” Virgil insisted. “In the end, she hated us and hated herself even more for letting us take you from her. But Cruciamentum was the real beginning of the end. By that point, I was the only one she really trusted anyway. She never got over the betrayal, the knowledge that I was just like the rest of them, that not a single one of us was really on her side when push came to shove, that she was a means to an end for us. Instrumentum quo praelium. 

“Gradually, she stopped listening to us about fighting demons and then she stopped fighting them. She went home to her mother and wouldn’t do anything. The Inner Council voted unanimously to kill her, not because they all thought she deserved it—only Dunstan ever really believed that—but because we needed another Slayer, one we could control. A more... mailable instrument. Servus fortissimus.

“Much later, when everything else had failed, they voted four to three to make Andrew do the killing, with Dunstan leading the charge for that too, of course, saying all of the same rubbish he’s been saying about you for the last month. I argued against it all, but I didn’t do anything to stop them. I was Outer Council then, but there was more I could have done. I certainly knew enough to have given her some kind of warning. At any rate, over Peter’s protests, Andrew was given the job, and so he—Peter—asked Helena to help him so that he wouldn’t have to do it alone.”

“Presumptuous blaggard,” Giles murmured. “If anyone else had treated her as he did, she’d have killed them and never shed a tear over it. Human weakness! It is easy to abuse someone who loves you!”

Virgil nodded. “That’s why Andrew got the job of killing Dahlia,” he explained grimly, needlessly. He paused for another wheezing breath. “Tell her,” he whispered adamantly. “Warn her! Be on her side.”

“I will,” Giles promised, “but not yet. She’s too angry right now. Too disillusioned. We have a little time and I hope to procure a little more before—”

“You fool!” Virgil hissed, coughing up blood. “God only knows when any of us is out of time! Tell. Her.”

“I’m afraid of losing her,” Giles admitted. “I’m afraid she won’t forgive me the time I’ve already hidden this on top of everything else she now knows I’ve been hiding about the Council and its… use of The Slayer. I’m afraid it might even push her over the edge, drive her to abandon the Council as she has threatened to do several times already, and usually on less cause. But that is a remote fear. I honestly think she will do her duty even unto the edge of doom and beyond. I’ve seen enough evidence to believe that. But she can do that almost as well without the likes of me, in time, perhaps even better. Sooner or later she is going to figure that out. She is going to grow up and understand what a millstone around her neck I am, and how very much better she can do for both a husband and a comrade in arms. I want to put that off as long as possible. So, I’m going to avoid telling her about Cruciamentum to the last reasonable moment in case the time until I tell her is the only time we’ve got to be together. I know it’s wrong but I’m going to do it anyhow, because frankly, I’m not a very good person. If there is one thing that coming back here has convinced me of, it is that.”

Virgil made no response. He was dead. 

~~~~~

Buffy lowered herself through the hole in the ceiling and into hell. The dead lay everywhere like broken toys, limbs and necks bent at impossible angles. Some were drenched in their own blood, others drained and pale. Among them lay a dark haired girl, her skin as white as snow against her blood red cocktail dress. The injured and their defenders huddled together in the center of the banquet hall, in the midst of the carnage, sick with horror and dread. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth. No one knew what to do. The floor was thick with demon dust.

“Do as they say,” Robson ordered, having somehow regained his ski-pole of authority. “Surrender. When we say that we were attacked, that we are the victims, the survivors of this… massacre,” he swept the charnel house around them with a broad, encompassing gesture, “the stones of the Earth will rise up to bear us witness.” Slowly the shell-shocked draftees in the war against God-knew-what looked around at one another as if for confirmation that what he said made sense. One by one and two by two they began drifting towards the front door and wandering out into the night to be confronted by the equally confused police, a frightened, bewildered mass of victims.

Laura Sterling stood unsteadily against the gallery railing, surveying the scene, shaking. Milton Crowne approached her, smiling serenely. He made sure to catch and hold Robson’s gaze, thereby drawing that of every Watcher in the room. He took Laura in his arms, kissed her on the lips and stood back, laughing. “Congratulations!” he declared, sweeping the scene below with his eyes, “All this shall soon be yours, my persistent adherent upon whom I am well settled!” Shock weary as they were, the crowd still manages a bit of desultory gasping and murmuring at that, _especially_ the half that _knew_ what it meant.

Robson nodded, looking deeply if somberly relieved. He leaned toward Buffy conspiratorially despite the staring throng and semi-whispered, “It looks like Rupert is off the hook after all. I swear, sometimes I think he has nine lives, like a cat. There will be discipline of course, for both of you, but nothing too difficult to bear. He’s a lucky man. Where the devil is he anyhow?”

Buffy stared at Robson. She tilted her head from side to side very slowly, as if seeing him for the first time, as if examining the unaccountable phenomenon that he was very carefully, appraising its features and capabilities. Something about her eyes made him want to wrap himself in his own arms, to ward off a shiver. When she suddenly pulled the ski-pole from his grasp, he almost did. But Buffy was the one shaking as she turned her back on him and began to scratch jerkily at the dusty floor with her aluminum pole before thrusting it violently aside and heading, against the exiting crowd, towards the back door.

When the highest and mightiest Watchers in the room saw what she had written in that unholy dust, The Reverend Dr. Laura Sterling snorted with contempt. But Milton Crowne and Phillip Robson exchanged a very uneasy look. Milton did not laugh as he read:

_**WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?** _

 

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End file.
